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OUTKE-MER 


A    PILGRIMAGE  BEYOND    THE  SEA 


3667 


I  have  passed  manye  laiides  and  manyc  yles  and  contreas,  and  cherched 
manye  fulle  strauuge  places,  arid  have  ben  iu  nianyo  a  fulh-  gode  honourable 
companye.  Now  I  ;uu  comen  home  to  reste.  And  thus  recordynge  the  tynie 
passed,  I  have  fulfilled  these  thynges  and  putte  hem  wyteii  in  this  boke,  as  it 
wouldt-  comu  into  my  mynde.— SIB  JOHN  MAUNDEVILLE 


NEW  YORK 

LOVELL,   COKYELL    &   COMPANY 

43,  45  AND  47  EAST  lOru  STREET 


CONTENTS. 


OUTRE-MER. 

PAG* 
THE  EPISTLE  DEDICATORY 5 

THE  PILGRIM  OF  OUTRE-.MER 7 

THE  NORMAN  DILIGENCE 10 

^.HE  GOLDEN  LION  INN  AT  ROUEN 15 

MARTIN  FRANC  AND  THE  MONK  OF  ST.  ANTHONY 19 

THE  VILLAGE  OF  AUTEUIL 34 

JACQUELINE 43 

THE  SEXAGENARIAN 50 

PERE  LA  CHAISE  55 

THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  LOIRE 65 

THE  TROUVKRES  76 

THE  BAPTISM  OF  FIRE 88 

COQ-A-L'A'NE 96 

THE  NOTARY  OF  PERIGUEUX 104 

THE  JOURNEY  INTO  SPAIN 113 

SPAIN 123 

A  TAILOR'S  DRAWER 128 

ANCIENT  SPANISH  BALLADS 138 

THE  VILLAGE  OF  EL  PARDILLO 157 

THE  MORAL  AND  DEVOTIONAL  POETRY  OF  SPAIN 169 

COPLAS  DE  MANRIQUE 192 

THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY 208 

THE  JOURNEY  INTO  ITALY 229 

3 


ROME  IN  MIDSUMMER , 339 

THE  VILLAGE  OF  LA  KICCIA 255 

NOTE-BOOK 268 

THE  PILGRIM'S  SALUTATION 273 

COLOPHON .276 


OUTRE-MER. 


THE    EPISTLE    DEDICATORY. 


The  cheerful  breeze  sets  fair  ;  we  fill  our  sail, 
And  scud  before  it.    When  the  critic  starts. 
And  angrily  unties  his  bags  of  wind, 
i'hen  we  lay  to,  and  let  the  blast  go  by. 

HURDIS. 


WORTHY  AND  GENTLE  READER, — 

I  DEDICATE  this  little  book  to  thee  with  many  fe^i-a 
and  misgivings  of  heart.  Being  a  stranger  to  thee, 
and  having  never  administered  to  thy  wants  nor  to  thy 
pleasures,  I  can  ask  nothing  at  thy  hands  saving  the 
common  courtesies  of  life.  Perchance,  too,  what  I  have 
written  will  be  little  to  thy  taste  ; — for  it  is  little  in  ac 
cordance  with  the  stirring  spirit  of  the  present  age.  If 
so,  I  crave  thy  forbearance  for  having  thought  that  even 
the  busiest  mind  might  not  be  a  stranger  to  those  mo 
ments  of  repose,  when  the  clock  of  time  clickr  drowsily 


6  THE  EPISTLE  DEDICATORY. 

behind  the  door,  and  trifles  become  the  amusement  of 
the  wise  and  great. 

Besides,  what  perils  await  the  adventurous  author  who 
launches  forth  into  the  uncertain  current  of  public  favor 
in  so  frail  a  bark  as  this  !  The  very  rocking  of  the  tide 
may  overset  him  ;  or  peradventure  gome  freebooting 
critic,  prowling  about  the  great  ocean  of  letters,  may 
descry  his  strange  colors,  hail  him  through  a  gray  goose- 
quill,  and  perhaps  sink  him  without  more  ado.  Indeed, 
the  success  of  an  unknown  author  is  as  uncertain  as  the 
wind.  "  When  a  book  is  first  to  appear  in  the  world," 
Bays  a  celebrated  French  writer,  te  one  knows  not  whom 
to  consult  to  learn  its  destiny.  The  stars  preside  not 
over  its  nativity.  Their  influences  have  no  operation  on 
it ;  and  the  most  confident  astrologers  dare  not  foretell 
the  diverse  risks  of  fortune  it  must  run." 

It  is  from  such  considerations,  worthy  reader,  that  I 
would  fain  bespeak  thy  friendly  offices  at  the  outset. 
But,  in  asking  these,  I  would  not  forestall  thy  good  opin 
ion  too  far,  lest  in  the  sequel  I  should  disappoint  thy 
kind  wishes.  I  ask  only  a  welcome  and  God-speed  ; 
hoping,  that,  when  thou  hast  read  these  pages,  thou  wilt 
say  to  me,  in  the  words  of  Nick  Bottom,  the  weaver,  "  I 
shall  desire  you  of  more  acquaintance,  good  Master 
Cobweb." 

Very  sincerely  thine, 

THE  AUTHOB. 


THE  PILGRIM  OF  OUTRE-MER. 


I  am  a  Palmer,  as  ye  se, 

Whiche  of  my  lyfe  muche  part  have  spent 

In  many  a  fayre  and  farre  cuntrie, 

As  pilgrims  do  of  good  intent. 

THE  FOUR  Ps. 


«  T  YSTENYTH,  ye  godely  gentylmen,  and  all  that 
J-J  ben  hereyn  ! "  I  am  a  pilgrim  benighted  on  my 
way,  and  crave  a  shelter  till  the  storm  is  over,  and  a  seat 
by  the  fireside  in  this  honorable  company.  As  a  stranger 
I  claim  this  courtesy  at  your  hands  ;  and  will  repay  your 
hospitable  welcome  with  tales  of  the  countries  I  have 
passed  through  in  my  pilgrimage. 

This  is  a  custom  of  the  olden  time.  In  the  days  of 
chivalry  and  romance,  every  baron  bold,  perched  aloof  in 
his  feudal  castle,  welcomed  the  stranger  to  his  halls,  and 
listened  with  delight  to  the  pilgrim's  tale  and  the  song 
of  the  troubadour.  Both  pilgrim  and  troubadour  had 
their  tales  of  wonder  from  a  distant  land,  embellished  with 
magic  of  Oriental  exaggeration.  Their  salutation  was, — 

"  Lordyng  lystnith  to  my  tale, 
That  is  meryer  than  the  nightingale." 

The  soft  luxuriance  of  the  Eastern  clime  bloomed  in  the 
song  of  the  bard  ;  and  the  wild  and  romantic  tales  of  re 
gions  so  far  off  as  to  be  regarded  as  almost  a  fairy  land 
were  well  suited  to  the  childish  credulity  of  an  age  when 
what  is  now  called  the  Old  World  was  in  its  childhood. 


8  THE  PILGRIM  OF  OUTRE-MER. 

Those  times  have  passed  away.  The  world  has  grown 
wiser  and  less  credulous ;  and  the  tales  which  then  de 
lighted  delight  no  longer.  But  man  has  not  changed 
his  nature.  He  still  retains  the  same  curiosity,  the  same 
love  of  novelty,  the  same  fondness  for  romance  and  tales 
by  the  chimney-corner,  and  the  same  desire  of  wearing 
out  the  rainy  day  and  the  long  winter  evening  with  the 
illusions  of  fancy  and  the  fairy  sketches  of  the  poet's  im 
agination.  It  is  as  true  now  as  ever,  that 

"  Off  talys,  and  tryfulles,  many  man  tellys  ; 
Some  byn  trew,  and  sume  byn  ellis  ; 
A  man  may  dryf e  forthe  the  day  that  long  tyme  dwellis 
Wyth  harpying,  and  pipying,  and  other  mery  spellis, 
Wyth  gle,  and  wyth  game." 

The  Pays  d'Outre-Mer,  or  the  Land  beyond  the  Sea,  is 
a  name  by  which  the  pilgrims  and  crusaders  of  old  usu 
ally  designated  the  Holy  Land.  I,  too,  in  a  certain  sense, 
have  been  a  pilgrim  of  Outre-Mer ;  for  to  my  youthful 
imagination  the  Old  World  was  a  kind  of  Holy  Land, 
lying  afar  off  beyond  the  blue  horizon  of  the  ocean  ;  and 
when  its  shores  first  rose  upon  my  sight,  looming  through 
the  hazy  atmosphere  of  the  sea,  my  heart  swelled  with 
the  deep  emotions  of  the  pilgrim,  when  he  sees  afar  the 
spire  which  rises  above  the  shrine  of  his  devotion. 

In  this  my  pilgrimage,  "  I  have  passed  many  lands  and 
countries,  and  searched  many  full  strange  places."  I 
have  traversed  France  from  JSFormapdy  to  Navarre ; 
smoked  my  pipe  in  a  Flemish  inn  ;  floated  through  Hol 
land  in  a  Trekschuit ;  trimmed  my  midnight  lamp  in  a 
German  university  ;  wandered  and  mused  amid  the  classic 
scenes  of  Italy  ;  and  listened  to  the  gay  guitar  and  merry 
Castanet  on  the  borders  of  the  blue  Guadalquivir.  The 
recollection  of  many  of  the  scenes  I  have  pissed  through 


THE  PILGRIM  OF  OUTRE-MER.  9 

is  still  fresh  in  my  mind  ;  while  the  memory  of  others  is 
fast  fading  away,  or  is  blotted  out  f oreyer.  But  now  I 
will  stay  the  too  busy  hand  of  time,  and  call  back  the 
shadowy  past.  Perchance  the  old.  and  the  wise  may 
accuse  me  of  frivolity  ;  but  I  see  in  this  fair  company  the 
bright  eye  and  listening  ear  of  youth, — an  age  less  rigid 
in  its  censure  and  more  willing  to  be  pleased.  "To 
gentlewomen  and  their  loves  is  consecrated  all  the  wooimg 
language,  allusions  to  love-passions,  and  sweet  embrace- 
ments  feigned  by  the  Muse  'mongst  hills  and  rivers; 
whatsoever  tastes  of  description,  battel,  story,  abstruse 
antiquity,  and  law  of  the  kingdome,  to  the  more  severe 
critic.  To  the  one,  be  contenting  enjoyments  of  their 
auspicious  desires ;  to  the  other,  a  happy  attendance  of 
their  chosen  Muses."  * 

And  now,  fair  dames  and  courteous  gentlemen,  give  me 
attentive  audience  : — 

"Lordyng  lystnith  to  my  tale, 
That  is  ineryerthan  the  nightingale." 


*  Selden's  Prefatory  Discourse  to  the  Notes  in  Drayton's  Poly 
Olbion. 


THE    NORMAN  DILIGENCE. 

The  French  guides,  otherwise  called  the  postilians,  have  one  most  diabolical! 
custome  in  their  travelling  upon  the  waves.  Diabolical!  it  may  be  well  called  ; 
for,  whensoever  their  horses  doe  a  little  anger  them,  they  will  say,  in  their  fury, 
Allotis,  (liable,— that  is,  Go,  thou  divel.  This  I  know  by  mine  own  experience. 

COBYAT'S  CRUDITIES. 

IT  Avas  early  in  the  "  leafy  month  of  June "  that  I 
travelled  through  the  beautiful  province  of  Nor 
mandy.  As  France  was  the  first  foreign  country  I  visited, 
everything  wore  an  air  of  freshness  and  novelty,  which 
pleased  my  eye,  and  kept  my  fancy  constantly  busy.  Life 
was  like  a  dream.  It  was  a  luxury  to  breathe  again  the 
free  air,  after  having  been  so  long  cooped  up  at  sea ;  and, 
like  a  long-imprisoned  bird  let  loose  from  its  cage,  my  im 
agination  revelled  in  the  freshness  and  sunshine  of  the 
morning  landscape. 

On  every  side,  valley  and  hill  were  covered  with  a 
carpet  of  soft  velvet  green.  The  birds  were  singing 
merrily  in  the  trees,  and  the  landscape  wore  that  look  of 
gayety  so  well  described  in  the  quaint  language  of  an  old 
romance,  making  the  "  sad,  pensive,  and  aching  heart  to 
rejoice,  and  to  throw  off  mourning  and  sadness."  Here 
and  there  a  cluster  of  chestnut-trees  shaded  a  thatch- 
roofed  cottage,  and  little  patches  of  vineyard  were  scat 
tered  on  the  slope  of  the  hills,  mingling  their  delicate 
green  with  the  deep  hues  of  the  early  summer  grain. 
The  whole  landscape  had  a  fresh,  breezy  look.  It  was 
not  hedged  in  from  the  highways,  but  lay  open  to  the  eye 
of  the  traveller,  and  seemed  to  welcome  him  with  open 
10 


THE  NORMAN  DILIGENCE.  \\ 

arms.  I  felt  less  a  stranger  in  the  land ;  and  as  my  eye 
traced  the  dusty  road  winding  along  through  a  rich  culti 
vated  country,  skirted  on  either  side  with  blossomed  fruit- 
trees,  and  occasionally  caught  glimpses  of  a  little  farm 
house  resting  in  a  green  hollow  and  lapped  in  the  besom 
of  plenty,  I  felt  that  I  was  in  a  prosperous,  hospitable, 
and  happy  land. 

I  had  taken  my  seat  on  top  of  the  diligence,  in  order 
to  have  a  better  view  of  the  country.  It  was  one  of  those 
ponderous  vehicles  which  totter  slowly  along  the  paved 
roads  of  France,  laboring  beneath  a  mountain  of  trunks 
and  bales  of  all  descriptions  ;  and,  like  the  Trojan  horse, 
bore  a  groaning  multitude  within  it.  It  was  a  curious 
and  cumbersome  machine,  resembling  the  bodies  of  three 
coaches  placed  upon  one  carriage,  with  a  cabriolet  on  top 
for  outside  passengers.  On  the  panels  of  each  door  were 
painted  the  fleurs-de-lis  of  France,  and  upon  the  side  of 
the  coach,  emblazoned  in  golden  characters,  "  Exploita 
tion  Generate  des  Messageries  Royales  des  Diligences  pour 
le  Havre,  Rouen,  et  Paris." 

It  would  be  useless  to  describe  the  motley  groups  that 
filled  the  four  quarters  of  this  little  world.  There  was 
the  dusty  tradesman,  with  green  coat  and  cotton  um 
brella  ;  the  sallow  invalid,  in  skullcap  and  cloth  shoes ; 
the  priest  in  his  cassock ;  the  peasant  in  his  frock  ;  and 
a  whole  family  of  squalling  children.  My  fellow-travel 
lers  on  top  were  a  gay  subaltern,  with  fierce  mustache, 
and  a  nut-brown  village  beauty  of  sweet  sixteen.  The 
subaltern  wore  a  military  undress,  and  a  little  blue  cloth 
cap,  in  the  shape  of  a  cow-bell,  trimmed  smartly  with 
silver  lace,  and  cocked  on  one  side  of  his  head.  The 
brunette  was  decked  out  with  a  staid  white  Norman  cap, 
nicely  starched  and  plaited,  and  nearly  three  feet  high, 


13  THE  NORMAN  DILIGENCE. 

a  rosary  and  cross  about  her  neck,  a  linsey-woolsey  gown, 
and  wooden  shoes. 

The  personage  who  seemed  to  rule  this  little  world 
with  absolute  sway  Avas  a  short,  pursy  man,  with  a  busy, 
self -satisfied  air,  and  the  sonorous  title  of  Monsieur  le 
Conducteur.  As  insignia  of  office,  he  wore  a  little  round 
fur  cap  and  fur-trimmed  jacket ;  and  carried  in  his  hand 
a  small  leathern  portfolio,  containing  his  way-bill.  He 
sat  with  us  on  top  of  the  diligence,  and  with  a  comic 
gravity  issued  his  mandates  to  the  postilion  below,  like 
some  petty  monarch  speaking  from  his  throne.  In  every 
dingy  village  we  thundered  through,  he  had  a  thousand 
commissions  to  execute  and  to  receive ;  a  package  to 
throw  out  on  this  side,  and  another  to  take  in  on  that ; 
a  whisper  for  the  landlady  at  the  inn  ;  a  love-letter  and  a 
kiss  for  her  daughter ;  and  a  wink  or  a  snap  of  his  fingers 
for  the  chambermaid  at  the  window.  Then  there  were 
so  many  questions  to  be  asked  and  answered,  while  chang 
ing  horses !  Everybody  had  a  word  to  say.  It  was 
Monsieur  le  Conducteur  !  here ;  Monsieur  le  Conducteur  ! 
there.  He  was  in  complete  bustle  ;  till  at  length  crying, 
En  route !  he  ascended  the  dizzy  height,  and  we  lum 
bered  away  in  a  cloud  of  dust. 

But  what  most  attracted  my  attention  was  the  grotesque 
appearance  of  the  postilion  and  the  horses.  He  was  a 
comical-looking  little  fellow,  already  past  the  heyday  ^ 
life,  with  a  thin,  sharp  countenance,  to  which  the  smoke 
of  tobacco  and  the  fumes  of  wine  had  given  the  dusty 
look  of  wrinkled  parchment.  He  was  equipped  in  a  short 
jacket  of  purple  velvet,  set  off  with  a  red  collar,  and 
adorned  with  silken  cord.  Tight  pantaloons  of  bright 
yellow  leather  arrayed  his  pipe-stem  legs,  which  were 
swallowed  up  in  a  huge  pair  of  wooden  boots,  iron- 


THE  NORMAN  DILIGENCE.  13 

fastened,  and  armed  with  long,  rattling  spurs.  His 
shirt-collar  was  of  vast  dimensions,  and  between  it  and 
the  broad  brim  of  his  high,  bell-crowned,  varnished  hat, 
projected  an  eel-skin  queue,  with  a  little  tuft  of  frizzled 
hair,  like  a  powder-puff,  at  the  end,  bobbing  up  and  down 
with  the  motion  of  the  rider,  and  scattering  a  white  cloud 
around  him. 

The  horses  which  drew  the  diligence  were  harnessed 
to  it  with  ropes  and  leather,  and  in  the  most  uncouth 
manner  imaginable.  They  were  five  in  number,  black, 
white,  and  gray, — as  various  in  size  as  in  color.  Their 
tails  were  braided  and  tied  up  with  wisps  of  straw ;  and 
when  the  postilion  mounted  and  cracked  his  heavy  whip, 
off  they  started  :  one  pulling  this  way,  another  that, — 
one  on  the  gallop,  another  trotting,  and  the  rest  dragging 
along  at  a  scrambling  pace,  between  a  trot  and  a  walk. 
No  sooner  did  the  vehicle  get  comfortably  in  motion,  than 
the  postilion,  throwing  the  reins  upon  his  horse's  neck, 
and  drawing  a  flint  and  steel  from  one  pocket  and  a  short- 
stemmed  pipe  from  another,  leisurely  struck  fire,  and 
began  to  smoke.  Ever  and  anon  some  part  of  the  rope- 
harness  would  give  way ;  Monsieur  le  Conduct eur  from 
on  high  would  thunder  forth  an  oath  or  two;  a  head 
would  be  popped  out  at  every  window;  half  a  dozen 
voices  exclaim  at  once,  "What's  the  matter?"  and  the 
postilion,  apostrophizing  the  diaUe  as  usual,  thrust  his 
long  whip  into  the  leg  of  his  boot,  leisurely  dismount, 
and,  drawing  a  handful  of  packthread  from  his  pocket, 
quietly  set  himself  to  mend  matters  in  the  best  way  posnble. 
In  this  manner  we  toiled  slowly  along  the  dusty  high 
way.  Occasionally  the  scene  was  enlivened  by  a  group 
of  peasants,  driving  before  them  a  little  ass,  laden  with 
vegetables  for  a  neighboring  market.  Then  we  would 


14  THE  NORMAN  DILIGENCE. 

pass  a  solitary  shepherd,  sitting  by  the  road-side,  with  a 
shaggy  dog  at  his  feet,  guarding  his  flock,  and  making 
nis  scanty  meal  on  the  contents  of  his  wallet ;  or  per 
chance  a  little  peasant  girl,  in  wooden  shoes,  leading  a 
cow  by  a  cord  attached  to  her  horns,  to  browse  along  the 
side  of  the  ditch.  Then  we  would  all  alight  to  ascend 
some  formidable  hill  on  foot,  and  be  escorted  up  by  a 
clamorous  group  of  sturdy  mendicants, — annoyed  by  the 
ceaseless  importunity  of  worthless  beggary,  or  moved  to 
pity  by  the  palsied  limbs  of  the  aged,  and  the  sightless 
eyeballs  of  the  blind. 

Occasionally,  too,  the  postilion  drew  up  in  front  of  a 
dingy  little  cabaret,  completely  overshadowed  by  wide- 
spreading  trees.  A  lusty  grape-vine  clambered  up  beside 
the  door ;  and  a  pine-bough  was  thrust  out  from  a  hole 
in  the  wall,  by  way  of  tavern-bush.  Upon  the  front  of 
the  house  was  generally  inscribed  in  large  black  letters, 

"  ICI  OX  DOXNE  A  BOIKE  ET  A  MAXGER  ;  ON  LOGE  A  PIED 

ET  A  CHEVAL  ";  a  sign  which  maybe  thus  paraphrased, — 
"  Good  entertainment  for  man  and  beast";  but  which  was 
once  translated  by  a  foreigner,  "  Here  they  give  to  eat 
and  drink  ;  they  lodge  on  foot  and  on  horseback  ! " 

Thus  one  object  of  curiosity  succeeded  another ;  hill, 
valley,  stream,  and  woodland  flitted  by  me  like  the  shift 
ing  scenes  of  a  magic  lantern,  and  one  train  of  thought 
gave  place  to  another  ;  till  at  length,  in  the  after  part  of 
the  day,  we  entered  the  broad  and  shady  avenue  of  fine 
old  trees  which  leads  to  the  western  gate  of  Eouen,  and  a 
few  moments  afterward  were  lost  in  the  crowds  and  con 
fusion  of  its  narrow  streets. 


THE  GOLDEN  LION  INN  AT  ROUEN. 


Monsieur  Vinot.  Jc  veux  absolument  un  Lion  TOr  ;  parce  qu'on  dit,  Oil  allex 
feus?  AuLioad'Or  1— D'ou  venez-vous  ?  Du  Lion  d'Or  !— Oil  irons-nous  ?  Aa 
Lion  d'Or  1— Oil  y  a-t-il  de  bon  viu  ?  Au  Lion  d'Or  1 

LA  ROSE  ROUGE. 


answer  of  Mqnsieur  Vinot  must  have  been  run- 
-*-  ning  in  my  head  as  the  diligence  stopped  at  the  Mes- 
sageric ;  for  when  the  porter,  who  took  my  luggage, 
said  :  — 

"  Ou  allez-vous,  Monsieur?" 

I  answered,  without  reflection  (for,  be  it  said  with  all 
the  veracity  of  a  traveller,  at  that  time  I  did  not  know 
there  was  a  Golden  Lion  in  the  city),— 

"Au  Lion  d'Or." 

And  so  to  the  Lion  d'Or  we  went. 

The  hostess  of  the  Golden  Lion  received  me  with  a 
courtesy  and  a  smile,  rang  the  house-bell  for  a  servant, 
and  told  him  to  take  the  gentleman's  things  to  number 
thirty -five.  I  followed  him  up  stairs.  One,  two,  three, 
four,  five,  six,  seven  !  Seven  stories  high,  by  Our  Lady  ! 
— I  counted  them  every  one  ;  and  when  I  went  down  to 
remonstrate,  I  counted  them  again  ;  so  that  there  was  no 
possibility  of  a  mistake.  When  I  asked  for  a  lower  room, 
the  hostess  told  me  the  house  was  full ;  and  when  I  spoke 
of  going  to  another  hotel,  she  said  she  should  be  so 
very  sorry,  so  desolee,  to  have  Monsieur  leave  her,  that  I 
marched  up  again  to  number  thirty-five. 

After  finding  all  the  fault  I  could  with  the  chamber,  1 
15 


16  THE  GOLDEN  LION  INN  AT  ROUEN. 

ended;  as  is  generally  the  case  with  most  men  on  such 
occasions,  by  being  very  well  pleased  with  it.  The  only 
thing  I  could  possibly  complain  of  was  my  being  lodged 
in  the  seventh  story,  and  in  the  immediate  neighborhood 
of  a  gentleman  who  was  learning  to  play  the  French  horn. 
But  to  remunerate  me  for  these  disadvantages,  my  window 
looked  down  into  a  market-place,  and  gave  me  a  distant 
view  of  the  towers  of  the  cathedral,  and  the  ruins  of  the 
church  and  abbey  of  St.  Ouen. 

When  I  had  fully  prepared  myself  for  a  ramble  through 
the  city,  it  was  already  sundown  ;  and  after  the  heat  and 
dust  of  the  day,  the  freshness  of  the  long  evening  twi 
light  was  delightful.  When  I  enter  a  new  city,  I  cannot 
rest  till  I  have  satisfied  the  first  cravings  of  curiosity  by 
rambling  through  its  streets.  Nor  can  I  endure  a  cice 
rone,  with  his  eternal  "  This  way,  Sir."  I  never  desire  to 
be  led  directly  to  an  object  worthy  of  a  traveller's  notice, 
but  prefer  a  thousand  times  to  find  my  own  way,  and 
come  upon  it  by  surprise.  This  was  particularly  the  case 
at  Rouen.  It  was  the  first  European  city  of  importance 
that  I  visited.  There  was  an  air  of  antiquity  about  the 
whole  city  that  breathed  of  the  Middle  Ages ;  and  so 
strong  and  delightful  was  the  impression  that  it  made 
upon  my  youthful  imagination,  that  nothing  which  I 
afterward  saw  could  either  equal  or  efface  it.  I  have  since 
passed  through  that  city,  but  I  did  not  stop.  I  was 
unwilling  to  destroy  an  impression  which,  even  at  that 
distant  day,  is  as  fresh  upon  my  mind  as  if  it  were  of 
yesterday. 

With  these  delightful  feelings  I  rambled  on  from  street 
to  street,  till  at  length,  after  threading  a  narrow  alley,  I 
unexpectedly  came  out  in  front  of  the  magnificent 
cathedral.  If  it  had  suddenly  risen  from  the  earth,  the 


THE  GOLDEN  LION  INN  AT  BO UEN.  17 

effect  could  not  have  been  more  powerful  and  instantane 
ous.  It  completely  overwhelmed  my  imagination ;  and 
I  stood  for  a  long  time  motionless,  and  gazing  entranced 
upon  the  stupendous  edifice.  I  had  before  seen  no  speci 
men  of  Gothic  architecture,  save  the  remains  of  a  little 
church  at  Havre  ;  and  the  massive  towers  before  me,  the 
lofty  windows  of  stained  glass,  the  low  portal,  with  its 
receding  arches  and  rude  statues,  all  produced  upon  my 
untravelled  mind  an  impression  of  awful  sublimity. 
When  I  entered  the  church,  the  impression  was  still  more 
atep  and  solemn.  It  was  the  hour  of  vespers.  The 
religious  twilight  of  the  place,  the  lamps  that  burned  on 
the  distant  altar,  the  kneeling  crowd,  the  tinkling  bell, 
and  the  chant  of  the  evening  service  that  rolled  along  the 
vaulted  roof  in  broken  and  repeated  echoes,  filled  me 
with  new  and  intense  emotions.  When  I  gazed  on  the 
stupendous  architecture  of  the  church,  the  huge  columns 
that  the  eye  followed  up  till  they  were  lost  in  the  gather 
ing  dusk  of  the  arches  above,  the  long  and  shadowy  aisles, 
the  statues  of  saints  and  martyrs  that  stood  in  every 
recess,  the  figures  of  armed  knights  upon  the  tombs,  the 
uncertain  light  that  stole  through  the  painted  windows 
of  each  little  chapel,  and  the  form  of  the  cowled  and 
solitary  monk,  kneeling  at  the  shrine  of  his  favorite  saint, 
or  passing  between  the  lofty  columns  of  the  church, — all 
I  had  read  of,  but  had  not  seen, — I  was  transported  back 
to  the  Dark  Ages,  and  felt  as  I  shall  never  feel  again. 

On  the  following  day,  I  visited  the  remains  of  an  old 
palace,  built  by  Edward  the  Third,  now  occupied  as  the 
Palais  de  Justice,  and  the  ruins  of  the  church  and  mon 
astery  of  Saint  Antoiiie.  I  saw  the  hole  in  the  tower 
where  the  ponderous  bell  of  the  abbey  fe1!  through  ;  and 
took  a  peep  at  the  curious  illuminated  manuscript  of 


18  THE  GOLDEN  LION  INN  AT  RO UEN. 

Daniel  d'Aubonne  in  the  public  library.  The  remainder 
of  the  morning  was  spent  in  visiting  the  ruins  of  the 
ancient  abbey  of  St.  Ouen,  which  is  now  transformed  into 
the  Hotel  de  Ville,  and  in  strolling  through  its  beautiful 
gardens,  dreaming  of  the  present  and  the  past,  and  given 
up  to  "a  melancholy  of  my  own." 

At  the  Table  d'Hote  of  the  Golden  Lion,  I  fell  into 
conversation  with  an  elderly  gentleman,  who  proved  to 
be  a  great  antiquarian,  and  thoroughly  read  in  all  the 
forgotten  lore  of  the  city.  As  our  tastes  were  somewhat 
similar,  we  were  soon  upon  very  friendly  terms  ;  and  after 
dinner  we  strolled  out  to  visit  some  remarkable  localities, 
and  took  the  gloria  together  in  the  Chevalier  Bayard. 

"When  we  returned  to  the  Golden  Lion,  he  entertained 
me  with  many  curious  stories  of  the  spots  we  had  been 
visiting.  Among  others,  he  related  the  following  singu 
lar  adventure  of  a  monk  of  the  abbey  of  St.  Antoine, 
which  amused  me  so  much  that  I  cannot  refrain  from 
presenting  it  to  my  readers.  I  will  not,  however,  vouch 
for  the  truth  of  the  story  ;  for  that  the  antiquarian  him 
self  would  not  do.  He  said  he  found  it  in  an  ancient 
manuscript  of  the  Middle  Ages,  in  the  archives  of  the 
public  library  ;  and  I  give  it  as  it  was  told  me,  without 
note  or  comment. 


MARTIN  FRANC  AND  THE  MONK  OF 
SAINT  ANTHONY.* 

Seignor,  oiez  une  merveille, 
C'onques  n'oistes  sapareille, 
Que  je  vos  vueil  dire  et  center  ; 
Or  metez  cuer  a  1'escouter. 

FABLIAU  DU  BoucHiKR  D'ABBEVTLL». 

Lystyn  Lordyngs  to  my  tale, 

And  ye  shall  here  of  one  story, 
IB  better  than  any  wyne  or  ale, 

That  ever  was  made  in  this  cuntry. 

ANCIENT  METRICAL  ROMANCE. 

IN  times  of  old,  there  lived  in  the  city  of  Rouen  a 
tradesman  named  Martin  Franc,  who,  by  a  series  of 
misfortunes,  had  been  reduced  from  opulence  to  poverty. 
But  poverty,  which  generally  makes  men  humble  and 
laborious,  only  served  to  make  him  proud  and  lazy  ;  and 
in  proportion  as  he  grew  poorer  and  poorer,  he  grew  also 
prouder  and  lazier.  He  contrived,  however,  to  live  along 
from  day  to  day,  by  now  and  then  pawning  a  silken  robe 

*  The  outlines  of  the  following  tale  were  taken  from  a  Norman 
Fabliau  of  the  thirteenth  century,  entitled  Le  Segretain  Maine. 
To  judge  by  the  numerous  imitations  of  this  story  which  still  exist 
in  old  Norman  poetry,  it  seems  to  have  been  a  prodigious  favorite 
in  its  day,  and  to  have  passed  through  as  many  hands  as  did  the 
body  of  Friar  Gui.  It  probably  had  its  origin  in  "The  Story  of 
the  Little  Hunchback,"  a  tale  of  the  Arabian  Nights  ;  and  in  mod 
ern  times  has  been  imitated  in  the  poetic  tale  of  "  The  Knight  and 
the  Friar,"  by  George  Colman.  Unfortunately,  I  was  not  aware  of 
this  circumstance  till  after  the  first  publication  of  the  following 
cages. 

19 


20  MARTIN  FRANC  AND 

of  his  wife,  or  selling  a  silver  spoon,  or  some  ether  trifle, 
saved  from  the  wreck  of  his  better  fortunes  ;  and  passed 
his  time  pleasantly  enough  in  loitering  about  the  market 
place,  and  walking  up  and  down  on  the  sunny  side  of 
the  street. 

The  fair  Marguerite,  his  wife,  was  celebrated  through 
the  whole  city  for  her  beauty,  her  wit,  and  her  virtue. 
She  was  a  brunette,  with  the  blackest  eye,  the  whitest 
teeth,  and  the  ripest  nut-brown  cheek  in  all  Normandy  ; 
her  figure  was  tall  and  stately,  her  hands  and  feet  most 
delicately  moulded,  and  her  s\rimming  gait  like  the  mo 
tion  of  a  swan.  In  happier  days  she  had  been  the  de 
light  of  the  richest  tradesmen  in  the  city,  and  the  envy 
of  the  fairest  dames  ;  and  when  she  became  poor,  her 
fame  was  not  a  little  increased  by  her  cruelty  to  several 
substantial  burghers,  who,  without  consulting  their  wives, 
had  generously  offered  to  stand  between  her  husband  and 
bankruptcy,  and  do  all  in  their  power  to  raise  a  worthy 
and  respectable  family. 

The  friends  of  Martin  Franc,  like  the  friends  of  many 
a  ruined  man  before  and  since,  deserted  him  in  the  day 
of  adversity.  Of  all  that  had  eaten  his  dinners,  ami 
drunk  his  wine,  and  philandered  with  his  wife,  none 
sought  the  narrow  alley  and  humble  dAvelling  of  the 
broken  tradesman  save  one,  and  that  one  was  Friar  Gui, 
the  sacristan  of  the  abbey  of  St.  Anthony.  He  was  a  lit 
tle,  jolly,  red-faced  friar,  with  a  leer  in  his  eye.,  and 
rather  a  naughty  reputation  for  a  man  of  his  cloth  ; 
but  as  he  was  a  kind  of  travelling  gazette,  and  always 
brought  the  latest  news  and  gossip  of  the  city,  and  be 
sides  was  the  only  person  that  condescended  to  visit  the 
house  of  Martin  Franc, — in  fine,  for  the  want  of  a  better, 
he  was  considered  in  the  light  of  a  friend. 


THE  MONK  OF  ST.  ANTHONY.  21 

In  these  constant  assiduities,  Friar  Gui  hud  his  secret 
motives,  of  which  the  single  heart  of  Martin  Franc  \va.s 
entirely  unsuspicious.  Tho  keener  eye  of  his  wife,  how 
ever,  soon  discovered  two  faces  under  the  hood.  She 
observed  that  the  friar  generally  timed  his  visits  so  as  to 
he  at  the  house  when  Martin  Franc  was  not  at  home — 
that  he  seemed  to  prefer  the  edge  of  the  evening  ;  and 
that  as  his  visits  became  more  frequent,  he  always  had 
some  little  apology  ready  ;  such  as  "being  obliged  to  pass 
that  way,  he  could  not  go  by  the  door  without  just  drop 
ping  in  to  see  how  the  good  man  Martin  did."  Occa 
sionally,  too,  he  ventured  to  bring  her  some  ghostly  pres- 
ent — such  as  a  picture  of  the  Madonna  and  Child,  or  one 
of  those  little  naked  images  which  are  hawked  about  the 
streets  at  the  nativity.  Though  the  object  of  all  this 
was  but  too  obvious,  yet  the  fair  Marguerite  persevered  in 
misconstruing  the  friar's  intentions,  and  in  dexterously 
turning  aside  any  expressions  of  gallantry  that  fell  from 
his  venerable  lips.  In  this  way  Friar  Gui  was  for  a  long 
time  kept  at  bay  ;  and  Martin  Franc  preserved  in  the  day 
of  poverty  and  distress  that  consolation  of  all  this  world's 
afflictions, — a  friend.  But,  finally,  things  came  to  such 
a  pass,  that  the  honest  tradesman  opened  his  eyes,  and 
wondered  he  had  been  asleep  so  long.  Whereupon  he 
was  irreverent  enough  to  tweak  the  nose  of  Friar  Gui, 
and  then  to  thrust  him  into  the  street  by  the  shoulders. 

Meanwhile  the  times  grew  worse  and  worse.  One 
family  relic  followed  another, — the  last  silken  robe  was 
pawned,  the  last  silver  spoon  sold  ;  until  at  length  poor 
Martin  Franc  was  forced  to  "  drag  the  devil  by  the  tail  "  ; 
in  other  words,  beggary  stared  him  full  in  the  face.  But 
the  fair  Marguerite  did  not  even  then  despair.  In  those 
days  a  belief  in  the  immediate  guardianship  of  the  saints 


22  MARTIN  FRANC  AND 

was  much  more  strong  and  prevalent  than  in  these  lewd 
and  degenerate  times ;  and  as  there  seemed  no  great 
probability  of  improving  their  condition  by  any  lucky 
change  which  could  be  brought  about  by  mere  human 
agency,  she  determined  to  try  what  could  be  done  by  in 
tercession  with  the  patron  saint  of  her  husband.  Ac 
cordingly  she  repaired  one  evening  to  the  abbey  of  St. 
Anthony,  to  place  a  votive  candle  and  offer  her  prayer  at 
the  altar,  which  stood  in  the  little  chapel  dedicated  to 
St.  Martin. 

It  was  already  sundown  when  she  reached  the  church, 
and  the  evening  service  of  the  Virgin  had  commenced. 
A  cloud  of  incense  floated  before  the  altar  of  the  Ma 
donna,  and  the  organ  rolled  its  deep  melody  along  the 
dim  arches  of  the  church.  Marguerite  mingled  with  the 
kneeling  cro^d,  and  repeated  the  responses  in  Latin, 
with  as  much  devotion  as  the  most  learned  clerk  of  the 
convent.  When  the  service  was  over,  she  repaired  to  the 
chapel  of  St.  Martin,  and  lighting  her  votive  taper  at  the 
silver  lamp  which  burned  before  his  altar,  knelt  down  in 
a  retired  part  of  the  chapel,  and,  with  tears  in  her  eyes, 
besought  the  saint  for  aid  and  protection.  While  she 
was  thus  engaged,  the  church  became  gradually  deserted, 
till  she  was  left,  as  she  thought,  alone.  But  in  this  she 
was  mistaken  ;  for,  when  she  arose  to  depart,  the  portly 
figure  of  Friar  Gui  was  standing  close  at  her  elbow  ! 

"A  fair  good  evening  to  my  lady  Marguerite,"  said 
he,  significantly.  "  St.  Martin  has  heard  your  prayer, 
and  sent  me  to  relieve  your  poverty. " 

"Then,  by  the  Virgin,"  replied  she,  "the  good  saint 
is  not  very  fastidious  in  the  choice  of  his  messengers." 

"  Nay,  good  wife,"  answered  the  friar,  not  at  all  abashed 
by  this  ungracious  reply,  "  if  the  tidings  are  good,  what 


THE  MONK  OF  ST.  ANTHONY  23 

matters  it  who  the  messenger  may  be  ?  And  how  does 
Martin  Franc  these  days  ?  " 

11  He  is  well,  Sir  Gui,"  replied  Marguerite  ;  "and  were 
he  present,  I  doubt  not  would  thank  you  heartily  for  the 
interest  you  still  take  in  him  and  his  poor  wife." 

"  He  has  done  me  wrong,"  continued  the  friar,  with 
out  seeming  to  notice  the  pointedness  of  Marguerite's 
reply.  "But  it  is  our  duty  to  forgive  our  enemies  ;  and 
so  let  the  past  be  forgotten.  I  know  that  he  is  in  want. 
Here,  take  this  to  him,  and  tell  him  1  am  still  his  friend." 

So  saying,  he  drew  a  small  purse  from  the  sleeve  of  his 
habit,  and  proffered  it  to  his  companion.  I  know  not 
whether  it  were  a  suggestion  of  St.  Martin,  but  true  it  is 
that  the  fair  lady  of  Martin  Franc-  seemed  to  lend  a  more 
willing  ear  to  the  earnest  whispers  of  the  friar.  At  length 
ehe  said, — 

"  Put  up  your  purse  ;  to-day  I  can  neither  deliver  your 
gift  nor  your  message.  Martin  Franc  has  gone  from 
home." 

"  Then  keep  it  for  yourself." 

"  Nay,  Sir  Monk,"  replied  Marguerite,  casting  down 
her  eyes  ;  "  I  can  take  no  bribes  here  in  the  church,  and 
in  the  very  chapel  of  my  husband's  patron  saint.  You 
shall  bring  it  to  me  at  my  house,  an  you  will,  Sir  Gui." 

The  friar  put  up  the  purse,  and  the  conversation  which 
followed  was  in  a  low  and  indistinct  undertone,  audible 
only  to  the  ears  for  which  it  was  intended.  At  length  the 
interview  ceased  ;  and — 0  woman  ! — the  last  words  that 
the  virtuous  Marguerite  uttered,  as  she  glided  from  the 
church,  were, — 

"  To-night ; — when  the  abbey-clock  strikes  twelve  ; — 
remember  ! " 

It  would  be  useless  to  relate  how  impatiently  the  friar 


24  MARTIN  FRANC  AND 

counted  the  hours  and  the  quarters  as  they  chimed  from 
the  ancient  tower  of  the  abbey,  while  he  paced  to  and  fro 
along  the  gloomy  cloister.  At  length  the  appointed  hour 
approached  ;  and  just  before  the  convent-bell  sent  forth 
its  summons  to  call  the  friars  of  St.  Anthony  to  their 
midnight  devotions,  a  figure  with  a  cowl  stole  out  of  a 
postern -gate,  and,  passing  silently  along  the  deserted 
streets,  soon  turned  into  the  little  alley  which  led  to  the 
dwelling  of  Martin  Franc.  It  was  none  other  than  Friar 
Gui.  He  rapped  softly  at  the  tradesman's  door,  and 
casting  a  look  up  and  down  the  street,  as  if  to  assure 
himself  that  his  motions  were  unobserved,  slipped  into 
the  house. 

"  Has  Martin  Franc  returned?"  inquired  he  in  a 
whisper. 

"No,"  answered  the  sweet  voice  of  his  wife  ;  "he  wil] 
not  be  back  to-night." 

"  Then  all  good  angels  befriend  us ! "  continued  the 
monk,  endeavoring  to  take  her  hand. 

"Not  so,  Sir  Monk,"  said  she,  disengaging  herself. 
"  You  forget  the  conditions  of  our  meeting." 

The  friar  paused  a  moment ;  and  then,  drawing  a  heavy 
leathern  purse  from  his  girdle,  he  threw  it  upon  the  table  ; 
at  the  same  moment  a  footstep  was  heard  behind  him, 
and  a  heavy  blow  from  a  club  threw  him  prostrate  upon 
the  floor.  It  came  from  the  strong  arm  of  Martin  Franc 
himself  ! 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  his  absence  was 
feigned.  His  wife  had  invented  the  story  to  decoy  the 
lewd  monk,  and  thereby  to  keep  her  husband  from 
beggary,  and  to  relieve  herself,  once  for  all,  from  the 
importunities  of  a  false  friend.  At  first  Martin  Franc 
would  not  listen  to  the  proposition ;  but  at  length  he 


THE  MONK  OF  ST.  ANTHONY.  35 

yielded  to  the  urgent  entreaties  of  his  wife  ;  and  the  plan 
finally  agreed  upon  was,  that  Friar  Gui,  after  leaving  his 
purse  behind  him,  should  be  sent  back  to  the  convent 
with  a  severer  discipline  than  his  shoulders  had  ever  re 
ceived  from  any  penitence  of  his  own. 

The  affair,  however,  took  a  more  serious  turn  than  was 
intended  ;  for,  when  they  tried  to  raise  the  friar  from  the 
ground, — he  was  dead.  The  blow  aimed  at  his  shoulders 
fell  upon  his  shaven  crown  ;  and,  in  the  excitement  of  the 
moment,  Martin  Franc  had  dealt  a  heavier  stroke  than 
he  intended.  Amid  the  grief  and  consternation  which 
followed  this  discovery,  the  quick  imagination  of  his  wife 
suggested  an  expedient  of  safety.  A  bunch  of  keys  at  the 
friar's  girdle  caught  her  eye.  Hastily  unfastening  the 
ring,  she  gave  the  keys  to  her  husband,  exclaiming, — 

"  For  the  holy  Virgin's  sake,  be  quick  !  One  of  these 
keys  unlocks  the  postern  gate  of  the  convent-garden. 
Carry  the  body  thither,  and  leave  it  among  the  trees  ! " 

Martin  Franc  threw  the  dead  body  of  the  monk  across 
his  shoulders,  and  with  a  heavy  heart  took  the  way  to  the 
abbey.  It  was  a  clear,  starry  night ;  and  though  the 
moon  had  not  yet  risen,  her  light  was  in  the  sky,  and 
came  reflected  down  in  a  soft  twilight  upon  earth.  Not 
a  sound  was  heard  through  all  the  long  and  solitary 
streets,  save  at  intervals  the  distant  crowing  of  a  cock, 
or  the  melancholy  hoot  of  an  owl  from  the  lofty  tower  of 
the  abbey.  The  silence  weighed  like  an  accusing  spirit 
upon  the  guilty  conscience  of  Martin  Franc.  He  started 
at  the  sound  of  his  own  breathing,  as  he  panted  under 
the  heavy  burden  of  the  monk's  body  ;  and  if,  perchance, 
a  bat  flitted  near  him  on  drowsy  wings,  he  paused,  and 
his  heart  beat  audibly  with  terror ;  such  cowards  doea 
conscience  make  of  even  the  most  courageous.  At  length  he 


26  MARTIN  FRANC  AND 

reached  the  garden- wall  of  the  abbey,  opened  the  postern* 
gate  with  the  key,  and,  bearing  the  monk  into  the  garden^ 
seated  him  upon  a  stone  bench  by  the  edge  of  the  fountain, 
with  his  head  resting  against  a  column,  upon  which  was 
sculptured  an  image  of  the  Madonna.  He  then  replaced 
the  bunch  of  keys  at  the  monk's  girdle,  and  returned 
home  with  hasty  steps. 

When  the  prior  of  the  convent,  to  whom  the  repeated 
delinquencies  of  Friar  Gui  were  but  too  well  known,  ob 
served  that  he  was  again  absent  from  his  post  at  midnight 
prayers,  he  waxed  exceedingly  angry ;  and  no  sooner 
were  the  duties  of  the  chapel  finished,  than  he  sent  a 
monk  in  pursuit  of  the  truant  sacristan,  summoning  him 
to  appear  immediately  at  his  cell.  By  chance  it  hap 
pened  that  the  monk  chosen  for  this  duty  was  a  bitter 
enemy  of  Friar  Gui ;  and  very  shrewdly  supposing 
that  the  sacristan  had  stolen  out  of  the  garden-gate  on 
some  midnight  adventure,  he  took  that  direction  in 
pursuit.  The  moon  was  just  climbing  the  convent- 
wall,  and  threw  its  silvery  light  through  the  trees  of  the 
garden,  and  on  the  sparkling  waters  of  the  fountain,  that 
fell  with  a  soft  lulling  sound  into  the  deep  basin  below. 
As  the  monk  passed  on  his  way,  he  stopped  to  quench  his 
thirst  with  a  draught  of  the  cool  water,  and  was  turning 
to  depart,  when  his  eye  caught  the  motionless  form  of  the 
sacristan,  sitting  erect  in  the  shadow  of  the  stone 
column. 

"How  is  this,  Friar  Gui?"  quoth  the  monk.  "Is 
this  the  place  to  be  sleeping  at  midnight,  when  the 
brotherhood  arc  all  in  their  dormitories  ?  " 

Friar  Gui  made  no  answer. 

"  Up,  up  !  thou  eternal  sleeper,  and  do  penance  foi 
thy  negligence.  The  prior  calls  for  thee  at  his  cell  ! " 


THE  MONK  Ob'  ,sT.   AMlloNJ.  2" 

continaed  the  monk,  growing  angry,  and  shaking  the 
*;icristun  by  the  shoulder. 

But  still  no  answer. 

"  Then,  by  Saint  Anthony,  I'll  wake  thee  !  So,  so  ! 
Sir  Gui ! " 

And  saying  this,  he  dealt  the  sacristan  a  heavy  box  on 
the  ear.  The  body  bent  slowly  forward  from  its  erect 
position,  and  giving  a  headlong  plunge,  sank  svith  a 
heavy  splash  into  the  basin  of  the  fountain.  The  monk 
waited  a  few  moments  in  expectation  of  seeing  Friar  Gui 
rise  dripping  from  his  cold  bath  ;  but  he  waited  in  vain  ; 
for  he  lay  motionless  at  the  bottom  of  the  basin, — his  eyes 
open,  and  his  ghastly  face  distorted  by  the  ripples  of  the 
water.  With  a  beating  heart  the  monk  stooped  down, 
and,  grasping  the  skirt  of  the  sacristan's  habit,  at  length 
succeeded  in  drawing  him  from  the  water.  All  efforts, 
however,  to  resuscitate  him  were  unavailing.  The  monk 
was  filled  with  terror,  not  doubting  that  the  friar  had 
died  untimely  by  hi.s  hand  ;  and  as  the  animosity  between 
them  was  no  secret  in  the  convent,  he  feared  that,  when 
the  deed  wa3  known,  he  should  be  accused  of  wilful 
murder.  He  therefore  looked  round  for  an  expedient  to 
relieve  himself  from  the  dead  body  ;  and  the  well-known 
character  of  the  sacristan  soon  suggested  one.  He  de 
termined  to  carry  the  body  to  the  house  of  the  most 
noted  beauty  of  Rouen,  and  leave  it  on  the  door-step  ;  so 
that  all  suspicion  of  the  murder  might  fall  upon  the 
shoulders  of  some  jealous  husband.  The  beauty  of  Mar 
tin  Franc's  wife  had  penetrated  even  the  thick  walls  of 
the  convent,  and  there  was  not  a  friar  in  the  whole  abbey 
of  Saint  Anthony  who  had  not  done  penance  for  his  tru« 
ant  imagination.  Accordingly,  the  dead  body  of  Friar 
Gui  was  laid  upon  the  monk's  brawny  shoulders,  carried 


28  MARTIN  FRANC  AND 

back  to  the  house  of  Martin  Franc,  and  placed  in  an  erect 
position  against  the  door.  The  monk  knocked  loud  and 
long  ;  and  then,  gliding  through  a  by-lane,  stole  back  to 
the  convent. 

A  troubled  conscience  would  not  suffer  Martin  Franc 
and  his  wife  to  close  their  eyes ;  but  they  lay  awake 
lamenting  the  doleful  events  of  the  night.  The  knock  at 
the  door  sounded  like  a  death- knell  in  their  ears.  It  still 
continued  at  intervals,  rap — rap — rap  ! — with  a  dull,  low 
sound,  as  if  something  heavy  were  swinging  against  the 
panel ;  for  the  wind  had  risen  during  the  night,  and  every 
angry  gust  that  swept  down  the  alley  swung  the  arms  of 
the  lifeless  sacristan  against  the  door.  At  length  Martin 
Franc  mustered  courage  enough  to  dress  himself  and  go 
down,  while  his  wife  followed  him  with  a  lamp  in  her 
hand :  but  no  sooner  had  he  lifted  the  latch,  than  the  pon 
derous  body  of  Friar  Gui  fell  stark  and  heavy  into  his  arms. 

"  Jesu  Maria  ! "  exclaimed  Marguerite,  crossing  herself  ; 
"  here  is  the  monk  again  ! " 

"Yes,  and  dripping  wet,  as  if  he  had  just  been  dragged 
out  of  the  river  ! " 

"0,  we  are  betrayed,  betrayed  ! "  exclaimed  Marguerite 
in  agony. 

"  Then  the  Devil  himself  has  betrayed  us,"  replied 
Martin  Franc,  disengaging  himself  from  the  embrace  of 
the  sacristan  ;  "  for  I  met  not  a  living  being  ;  the  whole 
city  was  as  silent  as  the  grave." 

"  Holy  Saint  Martin  defend  us  ! "  continued  his  ter 
rified  wife.  "  Here,  take  this  scapulary  to  guard  you  from 
the  Evil  One  ;  and  lose  no  time.  You  must  throw  the 
body  into  the  river,  or  we  are  lost !  Holy  Virgin  !  How 
bright  the  moon  shines  !  " 

Saying  this,  she  threw  round  his  neck  a  scapulary,  with 


THE  MONK  OF  ST.  ANTHONY.  29 

the  figure  of  a  cross  on  one  end,  and  an  image  of  the  Vir 
gin  on  the  other  ;  and  Martin  Franc  again  took  the  dead 
friar  upon  his  shoulders,  and  with  fearful  misgivings 
departed  on  his  dismal  errand.  He  kept  as  much  as  pos 
sible  in  the  shadow  of  the  houses,  and  had  nearly  reachod 
the  quay,  when  suddenly  he  thought  he  heard  footsteps 
behind  him.  He  stopped  to  listen  ;  it  was  110  mistake  ; 
they  came  along  the  pavement,  tramp,  tramp  !  and  every 
step  grew  louder  and  nearer.  Martin  Franc  tried  to 
quicken  his  pace, — but  in  vain  :  his  knees  smote  together, 
and  he  staggered  against  the  wall.  His  hand  relaxed  its 
grasp,  and  the  monk  slid  from  his  back  and  stood  ghastly 
and  straight  beside  him,  supported  by  chance  against  the 
shoulder  of  his  bearer.  At  that  moment  a  man  came 
round  the  corner,  tottering  beneath  the  weight  of  a  huge 
suck.  As  his  head  was  bent  downwards,  he  did  not  per 
ceive  Martin  Franc  till  lie  was  close  upon  him  ;  and  when, 
on  looking  up,  he  saw  two  figures  standing  motionless  in 
the  shadow  of  the  wall,  he  thought  himself  waylaid,  and, 
without  waiting  to  be  assaulted,  dropped  the  sack  from 
his  shoulders  and  ran  off  at  full  speed.  The  sack  fell 
heavily  on  the  pavement,  and  directly  at  the  feet  of 
Martin  Franc.  In  the  fall  the  string  was  broken  ;  and 
out  came  the  bloody  head,  not  of  a  dead  monk,  as  it  first 
seemed  to  the  excited  imagination  of  Martin  Franc,  but 
of  a  dead  hog  !  When  the  terror  and  surprise  caused  by 
this  singular  event  had  a  little  subsided,  an  idea  came  into 
the  mind  of  Martin  Franc,  very  similar  to  what  would  have 
come  into  the  mind  of  almost  any  person  in  similar  cir 
cumstances.  He  took  the  hog  out  of  the  sack,  and  put 
ting  the  body  of  the  monk  into  its  place,  secured  it  well 
with  the  remnants  of  the  broken  string,  and  ^hen  hurriea 
homeward  with  the  hog  upon  his  shoulders. 


30  MARTIN  FRANC  AND 

He  was  hardly  out  of  sight  when  the  man  of  the  sack 
returned,  accompanied  by  two  others.  They  were  sur 
prised  to  find  the  sack  still  lying  on  the  ground,  with  no 
one  near  it,  and  began  to  jeer  the  former  bearer,  telling 
him  he  had  been  frightened  at  his  own  shadow  on  the 
wall.  Then  one  of  them  took  the  sack  upon  his  shoulders, 
without  the  least  suspicion  of  the  change  that  had  been 
made  in  its  contents,  and  all  three  disappeared. 

Now  it  happened  that  the  city  of  Rouen  was  at  that  time 
infested  by  three  street  robbers,  who  walked  in  darknes? 
like  the  pestilence,  and  always  carried  the  plunder  of 
their  midnight  marauding  to  the  Tete-de-Bceuf,  a  little 
tavern  in  one  of  the  darkest  and  narrowest  lanes  of  the 
city.  The  host  of  the  Tete-de-Boeuf  was  privy  to  all  their 
schemes,  and  had  an  equal  share  in  the  profits  of  then 
nightly  excursions.  He  gave  a  helping  hand,  too,  by  the 
length  of  his  bills,  and  by  plundering  the  pockets  of  anj 
chance  traveller  that  was  luckless  enough  to  sleep  undei 
his  roof. 

On  the  night  of  the  disastrous  adventure  of  Friar  Gui, 
this  little  marauding  party  had  been  prowling  about  the 
city  until  a  late  hour,  without  finding  anything  to  reward 
their  labors.  At  length,  however,  they  chanced  to  spy  a 
hog,  hanging  under  a  shed  in  a  butcher's  yard,  in  readi 
ness  for  the  next  day's  market ;  and  as  they  were  not  very 
fastidious  in  selecting  their  plunder,  but,  on  the  contrary, 
rather  addicted  to  taking  whatever  they  could  lay  their 
hands  on,  the  hog  was  straightway  purloined,  thrust  into 
a  largfc  sack,  and  sent  to  the  Tete-de-Bceuf  on  the  shoul 
ders  of  one  of  the  party,  while  the  other  two  continued 
their  nocturnal  excursion.  It  was  this  person  who  had 
been  so  terrified  at  the  appearance  of  Martin  Franc  an<3 
the  dead  monk  ;  and  as  this  encounter  had  interrupted 


THE  MONK  OF  ST.  ANTHONY.  81 

any  further  operations  of  the  party,  the  dawn  of  day 
being  now  near  at  hand,  they  all  repaired  to  their  gloomy 
den  in  the  Tete-de-Boeuf.  The  host  was  impatiently 
waiting  their  return  ;  and,  asking  what  plunder  they  had 
brought  with  them,  proceeded  without  delay  to  remove  it 
from  the  sack.  The  first  thing  that  presented  itself,  on 
untying  the  string,  was  the  monk's  hood. 

"  The  devil  take  the  devil  ! "  cried,  the  host,  as  he 
opened  the  neck  of  the  sack  ;  "what's  this  ?  Your  hog 
has  caught  a  cowl  ! " 

"  The  poor  devil  has  become  disgusted  with  the  world, 
and  turned  monk  ! "  said  he  who  held  the  light,  a  little 
surprised  at  seeing  the  head  covered  with  a  coarse  gray 
cloth. 

"Sure  enough  he  has,"  exclaimed  another,  starting 
back  in  dismay,  as  the  shaven  crown  and  ghastly  face  of 
the  friar  appeared.  "  Holy  St.  Benedict  be  with  us  !  It 
is  a  monk  stark  dead  ! " 

"A  dead  monk,  indeed!"  said  a  third,  with  an  in 
credulous  shake  of  the  head  :  "how  could  a  dead  monk 
get  into  this  sack  ?  No,  no ;  there  is  some  diablerie  in 
this.  I  have  heard  it  said  that  Satan  can  take  any  shape 
he  pleases  ;  and  you  may  rely  upon  it  this  is  Satan  him 
self,  who  has  taken  the  shape  of  a  monk  to  get  us  all 
hanged." 

"  Then  we  had  better  kill  the  devil  than  have  the  devil 
kill  us!"  replied  the  host,  crossing  himself;  "and  the 
sooner  we  do  it  the  better ;  for  it  is  now  daylight,  and 
the  people  will  soon  be  passing  in  the  street." 

"So  say  I,"  rejoined  the  man  of  magic;  "and  my 
v*vice  is,  to  take  him  to  the  butcher's  yard,  and  hang 
tim  up  m  the  place  where  we  found  the  hog." 

This  proposition  so  pleased   the  others  that  it  was 


32  MARTIN  FRANG  AND 

executed  without  delay.  They  carried  the  friar  to  the 
butcher's  house,  and,  passing  a  strong  cord  round  his  neck, 
suspended  him  to  a  beam  in  the  shed,  and  there  left  him. 

When  the  night  was  at  length  past,  and  daylight  began 
to  peep  into  the  eastern  windows  of  the  city,  the  butcher 
arose,  and  prepared  himself  for  market.  He  was  casting 
up  in  his  mind  what  the  hog  would  bring  at  his  stall, 
when,  looking  upward,  lo!  in  its  place  he  recognized  the 
dead  body  of  Friar  Gui. 

"By  St.  Dennis!"  quoth  the  butcher,  "I  always 
feared  that  this  friar  would  not  die  quietly  in  his  cell ; 
but  I  never  thought  I  should  find  him  hanging  under  my 
own  roof.  This  must  not  be  ;  it  will  be  said  that  I  mur 
dered  him,  and  I  shall  pay  for  it  with  my  life.  I  must 
contrive  some  way  to  get  rid  of  him." 

So  saying,  he  called  his  man,  and,  showing  him  what 
had  been  done,  asked  him  how  he  should  dispose  of  the 
body  so  that  he  might  not  be  accused  of  murder.  The 
man  who  was  of  a  ready  wit,  reflected  a  moment,  and  then 
answered, — 

"  This  is  indeed  a  difficult  matter  ;  but  there  is  no  evil 
without  its  remedy.  We  will  place  the  friar  on  horse 
back—" 

"What!  a  dead  man  on  horseback? — impossible!" 
interrupted  the  butcher.  "  Who  ever  heard  of  a  dead 
man  on  horseback  !  " 

"Hear  me  out,  and  then  judge.  We  must  place  the 
body  on  horseback  as  well  as  we  may,  and  bind  it  fast 
with  cords  ;  and  then  set  the  horse  loose  in.  the  street, 
and  pursue  after  him,  crying  out  that  the  monk  has 
stolen  the  horse.  Thus  all  who  meet  him  will  strike 
him  with  their  staves  as  he  passes,  and  it  will  be  thought 
that  he  came  to  his  death  in  that  way." 


THE  MONK  OF  ST.  ANTHONY.  33 

Though  this  seemed  to  the  butcher  rather  a  mad  proj 
ect,  yet,  a»  no  better  one  offered  itself  at  the  moment, 
and  there  was  no  time  for  reflection,  mad  as  the  project 
was,  they  determined  to  put  it  into  execution.  Accord 
ingly  the  butcher's  horse  was  brought  out,  and  the  friar 
svas  bound  upon  his  back,  and  with  much  difficulty  fixed 
in  an  upright  position.  The  butcher  then  gave  the  horse 
a  blow  upon  the  crupper  with  his  staff,  which  set  him  into 
a  smart  gallop  down  the  street,  and  he  and  his  man  joined 
in  pursuit,  crying,— 

"  Stop  thief !  Stop  thief!  The  friar  has  stolen  my  horse !" 
As  it  was  now  sunrise,  the  streets  were  full  of  people, 
— peasants,  driving  their  goods  to  market,  and  citizens 
going  to  their  daily  avocations.  When  they  saw  the  friar 
dashing  at  full  speed  down  the  street,  they  joined  in  the 
cry  of  "  Stop  thief  ! — Stop  that  horse  !  "  and  many  who 
endeavored  to  seize  the  bridle,  as  the  friar  passed  them 
at  full  speed,  were  thrown  upon  the  pavement,  and 
trampled  under  foot ;  others  joined  in  the  halloo  and  the 
pursuit ;  but  this  only  served  to  quicken  the  gallop  of 
the  frightened  steed,  who  dashed  down  one  street  and  up 
another  like  the  wind,  with  two  or  three  mounted  citi 
zens  clattering  in  full  cry  at  his  heels.  At  length  they 
reached  the  marketplace.  The  people  scattered  right 
and  left  :n  dismay ;  and  the  steed  and  rider  dashed  on 
ward,  overthrowing  in  their  course  men  and  women,  and 
stalls,  and  uiies  of  merchandise,  and  sweeping  away  like 
a  whirlwind.  Tramp — tramp — tramp !  they  clattered  on  ; 
they  had  distanced  all  pursuit.  They  reached  the  quay  ; 
the  wide  pavement  was  cleared  at  a  bound, — one  more 
wild  leap, — and  splash  ! — both  horse  and  rider  sank  into 
the  rapid  current  of  the  river, — swept  down  the  stream, 
— and  were  seen  no  more  ! 
2* 


THE  VILLAGE  OF  AUTEUIL. 


II  n'est  tel  plaisir 
Que  d'estre  a  gesir 
Parmy  les  beaux  champs, 
L'herbe  verde  choWr, 
Et  prendre  bon  temps. 

MARTIAL  D'AUVERGNE. 


sultry  heat  of  summer  always  brings  with  it 
-i-  to  the  idler  and  the  man  of  leisure,  a  longing  foi 
the  leafy  shade  and  the  green  luxuriance  of  the  country. 
It  is  pleasant  to  interchange  the  din  of  the  city,  the 
movement  of  the  crowd,  and  the  gossip  of  society,  with 
the  silence  of  the  hamlet,  the  quiet  seclusion  of  the  grove, 
and  the  gossip  of  a  woodland  brook.  As  is  sung  in  the 
old  ballad  of  Kobin  Hood, — 

"  In  somer,  when  the  shawes  be  sheyn, 

And  leves  be  large  and  long, 
Hit  is  full  mery  in  f eyre  foreste, 

To  here  the  foulys  song  ; 
To  se  the  dere  draw  to  the  dale 

And  leve  the  hilles  hee, 
And  shadow  hem  in  the  leves  grene, 

Vnder  the  grene  wode  tre." 

It  was  a  feeling  of  this  kind  that  prompted  me,  during 
my  residence  in  the  North  of  France,  to  pass  one  of  the 
summer  months  at  Auteuil,  the  pleasantest  of  the  many 
'little  villages  that  lie  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the 
metropolis.  It  is  situated  on  the  outskirts  of  the  Bois  de 
34 


TEE  VILLAGE  OF  AUTEJJIL.  35 

Boulogne,  a  wood  of  some  extent,  in  whose  green  alleys 
the  dusty  cit  enjoys  the  luxury  of  an  evening  drive,  and 
gentlemen  meet  in  the  morning  to  give  each  other  satis 
faction  in  the  usual  way.  A  cross-road,  skirted  with 
green  hedge-rows,  and  overshadowed  by  tall  poplars,  leads 
you  from  the  noisy  highway  of  St.  Cloud  and  Versailles 
to  the  still  retirement  of  this  suburban  hamlet.  On 
either  side  the  eye  discovers  old  chateaux  amid  the  trees, 
and  green  parks,  whose  pleasant  shades  recall  a  thousand 
images  of  La  Fontaine,  Kacine,  and  Moliere  ;  and  on  an 
eminence,  overlooking  the  windings  of  the  Seine,  ancl 
giving  a  beautif  ul  though  distant  view  of  the  domes  and 
gardens  of  Pans;  rises  uhe  village  of  Passy,  kmg  the  resi 
dence  of  our  countrymen  FranKlin  ?n.S.  Count  Kumford, 

I  took  up  my  abode  at  a  maison  de  sanie  ;  not  thai  1 
was  a  valetudinarian,  but  because  I  there  found  some  one 
to  whom  I  could  whisper,  "  How  sweet  is  solitude  ! " 
Behind  the  house  was  a  garden  filled  with  fruit-trees  of 
various  kinds,  and  adorned  with  gravel-walks  and  green 
arbors,  furnished  with  tables  and  rustic  seats,  for  the  re 
pose  of  the  invalid  and  the  sleep  of  the  indolent.  Here 
the  inmates  of  the  rural  hospital  met  on  common  ground, 
to  breathe  the  invigorating  air  of  morning,  and  while 
away  the  lazy  noon  or  vacant  evening  Avith  tales  of  the 
sick  chamber. 

The  establishment  was  kept  by  Dr.  Dentdelion,  a  dried- 
up  little  fellow,  with  red  hair,  a  sandy  complexion,  and 
the  physiognomy  and  gestures  of  a  monkey.  His  char 
acter  corresponded  to  his  outward  lineaments ;  for  he 
had  all  a  monkey's  busy  and  curious  impertinence.  Nev 
ertheless,  such  as  he  was,  the  village  JEsculapius  strutted 
forth  the  little  great  man  of  Auteuil.  The  peasants 
looKed  up  to  him  as  to  an  oracle ;  he  contrived  to  be  at 


36  TBiS  VILLAGE  OF  A  UTEUIL. 

the  head  of  everything,  and  laid  claim  to  the  credit  of 
all  public  improvements  in  the  village  ;  in  fine,  he  was  a 
great  man  on  a  small  scale. 

It  was  within  the  dingy  walls  of  this  little  potentate's 
imperial  palace  that  I  chose  my  country  residence.  1 
had  a  chamber  in  the  second  story,  with  a  solitary  win 
dow,  which  looked  upon  the  street,  and  gave  me  a  peep 
into  a  neighbor's  garden.  This  I  esteemed  a  great  privi 
lege  ;  for,  as  a  stranger,  I  desired  to  see  all  that  was  pass 
ing  out  of  doors ;  and  the  sight  of  green  trees,  though 
growing  on  another  man's  ground,  is  always  a  blessing. 
Within  doors — had  I  been  disposed  to  quarrel  with  my 
household  gods — I  might  have  taken  some  objection  to 
my  neighborhood  ;  for,  on  one  side  of  me  was  a  consump 
tive  patient,  whose  graveyard  cough  drove  me  from  my 
chamber  by  day ;  and  on  the  other,  an  English  colonel, 
whose  incoherent  ravings,  in  the  delirium  of  a  high  and 
obstinate  fever,  often  broke  my  slumbers  by  night ;  but  I 
found  ample  amends  for  these  inconveniences  in  the  soci 
ety  of  those  who  were  so  little  indisposed  as  hardly  to 
know  what  ailed  them,  and  those  who,  in  health  them 
selves,  had  accompanied  a  friend  or  relative  to  the  shades 
of  the  country  in  pursuit  of  it.  To  these  I  am  indebted 
for  much  courtesy ;  and  particularly  to  one  who,  if  these 
pages  should  ever  meet  her  eye,  will  not,  I  hope,  be  un 
willing  to  accept  this  slight  memorial  of  a  former  friend 
ship. 

It  was,  however,  to  the  Bois  do  Boulogne  that  I  looked 
ior  my  principal  recreation.  There  I  took  my  solitary 
walk,  morning  and  evening ;  or,  mounted  on  a  little 
mouse-colored  donkey,  paced  demurely  along  the  wood 
land  pathway.  I  had  a  favorite  seat  beneath  the  shadow 
of  a  venerable  oak,  one  of  the  few  hoary  patriarchs  of  the 


THE  VILLAGE  OF  A  UTETTTL.  37 

tfood  which  had  survived  the  bivouacs  of  the  allied  arm* 
ies.  It  stood  upon  the  brink  of  a  little  glassy  pool,  whose 
tranquil  bosom  was  the  image  of  a  quiet  and  secluded  life, 
and  stretched  its  parental  arms  over  a  rustic  bench,  that 
had  been  constructed  beneath  it  for  the  accommodation 
of  the  foot-traveller,  or,  perchance,  some  idle  dreamer 
like  myself.  It  seemed  to  look  round  with  a  lordly  air 
upon  its  old  hereditary  domain,  Avhose  stillness  was  no 
longer  broken  by  the  tap  of  the  martial  drum,  nor  the 
discordant  clang  of  arms ;  and,  as  the  breeze  whispered 
among  its  branches,  it  seemed  to  be  holding  friendly  col 
loquies  with  a  few  of  its  venerable  contemporaries,  who 
stooped  from  the  opposite  bank  of  the  pool,  nodding 
gravely  now  and  then,  and  ogling  themselves,  with  a  sigh 
in  the  mirror  below. 

In  this  quiet  haunt  of  rural  repose  I  used  to  sit  at 
noon,  hear  the  birds  sing,  and  "possess  myself  in  much 
quietness."  Just  at  my  feet  lay  the  little  silver  pool, 
with  the  sky  and  the  woods  painted  in  its  mimic  vault, 
and  occasionally  the  image  of  a  bird,  or  the  soft,  watery 
outline  of  a  cloud,  floating  silently  through  its  sunny 
hollows.  The  water-lily  spread  its  broad,  green  leaves 
on  the  surface,  and  rocked  to  sleep  a  little  world  of  in 
sect  life  in  its  golden  cradle.  -Sometimes  a  wander 
ing  leaf  came  floating  and  wavering  downward,  and  set 
tled  on  the  water ;  then  a  vagabond  insect  would 
break  the  smooth  surface  into  a  thousand  ripples,  or  a 
green-coated  frog  slide  from  the  bank,  and,  plump  !  dive 
headlong  to  the  bottom. 

I  entered,  too,  with  some  enthusiasm,  into  all  the  rural 
sports  and  merrimakes  of  the  village.  The  holidays  were 
so  many  little  eras  of  mirth  and  good  feeling ;  for  the 
French  have  that  happy  and  sunshine  temperament,-- 


38  THE  VILLAGE  OF  ATTTEUIL. 

that  merry-go-mad  character, — which  makes  all  their 
social  meetings  scenes  of  enjoyment  and  hilarity.  I  made 
it  a  point  never  to  miss  any  of  the  fetes  cliampetres,  or 
rural  dances,  at  the  woods  of  Boulogne  ;  though  I  confess 
it  sometimes  gave  me  a  momentary  uneasiness  to  see  my 
rustic  throne  beneath  the  yoke  usurped  by  a  noisy  group 
of  girls,  the  silence  and  decorum  of  my  imaginary  realm 
broken  by  music  and  laughter,  and,  in  a  word,  my  whole 
kingdom  turned  topsy-turvey  with  romping,  fiddling,  and 
dancing.  But  I  am  naturally,  and  from  principle,  too,  a 
lover  of  all  those  innocent  amusements  which  cheer  the  la 
borer's  toil,  and,  as  it  were,  put  their  shoulders  to  the  wheel 
of  life,  and  help  the  poor  man  along  with  his  load  of  cares. 
Hence  I  saw  with  no  small  delight  the  rustic  swain  astride 
the  wooden  horse  of  the  carrousel,  and  the  village  maiden 
whirling  round  and  round  in  its  dizzy  car ;  or  took  my 
stand  on  a  rising  ground  that  overlooked  the  dance,  an 
idle  spectator  in  a  busy  throng.  It  was  just  where  the 
village  touched  the  outward  border  of  the  wood.  There 
a  little  area  had  been  levelled  beneath  the  trees,  sur 
rounded  by  a  painted  rail,  with  a  row  of  benches  inside. 
The  music  was  placed  in  a  slight  balcony,  built  around 
the  trunk  of  a  large  tree  in  the  centre  ;  and  the  lamps, 
hanging  from  the  branches  above,  gave  a  gay,  fantastic, 
and  fairy  look  to  the  scene.  How  often  in  such  moments 
did  I  recall  the  lines  of  Goldsmith,  describing  those 
"kinder  skies"  beneath  which  "France  displays  her 
bright  domain,"  and  feel  how  true  and  masterly  the 
sketch, — 

"  Alike  all  ages  ;  flames  of  ancient  days 
Have  led  their  children  through  the  mirthful  maze, 
And  -she  gray  grandsire,  skilled  in  gestic  lore, 
Has  frisked  beneath  the  burden  of  threescore." 


THE  VILLAGE  OF  AUTEUIL.  39 

Nor  must  I  forget  to  mention  the  fete  patronale, — a 
kind  of  annual  fair  which  is  held  at  midsummer,  in  honor 
of  the  patron  saint  of  Auteuil.  Then  the  principal  street 
of  the  village  is  filled  with  booths  of  every  description ; 
strolling  players  and  rope-dancers,  and  jugglers,  and 
giants,  and  dwarfs,  and  wild  beasts,  and  all  kinds  of 
wonderful  shows  excite  the  gaping  curiosity  of  the 
throng  ;  and  in  dust,  crowds,  and  confusion,  the  village 
rivals  the  capital  itself.  Then  the  goodly  dames  of  Passy 
descend  into  the  village  of  Auteuil ;  then  the  brewers  of 
Billancourt  and  the  tanners  of  Sevres  dance  lustily  under 
the  greenwood  tree ;  and  then,  too,  the  sturdy  fish 
mongers  of  Brutigny  and  Saint- Yon  regale  their  fat  wives 
with  an  airing  in  a  swing,  and  their  customers  with  eels 
and  crawfish  ;  or,  as  is  more  poetically  set  forth  in  an  old 
Christmas  carol, — 

"  Vous  eussiez  vu  venir 

Tous  ceux  de  Saint- Yon, 
Et  ceux  de  Bretigny 

Apportant  du  poisson, 
Les  barbeaux  et  gardens, 
Anguilles  et  carpettes 
Etaient  a  bon  marche 

Croyez, 
A  cette  journee-la, 

La,  la, 
Et  aussi  les  perchettes." 

I  found  another  source  of  amusement  in  observing  the 
various  personages  that  daily  passed  and  repassed  beneath 
my  window.  The  character  which  most  of  all  arrested 
my  attention  was  a  poor  blind  fiddler,  whom  I  first  saw 
chanting  a  doleful  ballad  at  the  door  of  a  small  tavern 
near  the  gate  of  the  village.  He  wore  a  brown  coat,  out 


40  THE  VILLAGE  OF  A  UTEUIL. 

at  elbows,  the  fragment  of  a  velvet  waistcoat,  and  a  paii 
of  tight  nankeens,  so  short  as  hardly  to  reach  below  his 
calves.  A  little  f  oraging-cap,  that  had  long  since  seen  its 
best  days,  set  off  an  open,  good-humored  countenance, 
bronzed  by  sun  and  wind.  He  was  led  about  by  a  brisk, 
middle-aged  woman,  in  straw  hat  and  wooden  shoes ; 
and  a  little  barefooted  boy,  with  clear,  blue  eyes  and 
flaxen  hair,  held  a  tattered  hat  in  his  hand,  in  which  he 
collected  eleemosynary  sous.  The  old  fellow  had  a 
favorite  song,  which  he  used  to  sing  with  great  glee  to  a 
merry,  joyous  air,  the  burden  of  which  ran,  "  Chantons 
V amour  et  le  plaisir!"  Let  us  sing  of  love  and 
pleasure.  I  often  thought  it  would  have  been  a  good 
lesson  for  the  crabbed  and  discontented  rich  man  to  have 
heard  this  remnant  of  humanity, — poor,  blind,  and  in 
rags,  and  dependent  upon  casual  charity  for  his  daily 
bread,  singing  in  so  cheerful  a  voice  the  charms  of 
existence,  and,  as  it  were,  fiddling  life  away  to  a  merry 
tune. 

I  was  one  morning  called  to  my  window  by  the  sound 
of  rustic  music.  I  looked  out  and  beheld  a  procession  of 
villagers  advancing  along  the  road,  attired  in  gay  dresses, 
and  marching  merrily  on  in  the  direction  of  the  church. 
I  soon  perceived  that  it  was  a  marriage-festival.  The  pro 
cession  was  led  by  a  long  orang-outang  of  a  man,  in  a 
straw  hat  and  white  dimity  bob-coat,  playing  on  an  asth 
matic  clarionet,  from  which  he  contrived  to  blow  un 
earthly  sounds,  ever  and  anon  squeaking  off  at  right  an 
gles  from  his  tune,  and  winding  up  with  a  grand  flourish 
on  the  guttural  notes.  Behind  him.  led  by  his  little  boy, 
came  the  blind  fiddler,  his  honest  features  glowing  with 
all  the  hilarity  of  a  rustic  bridal,  and,  as  he  stumbled 
along,  sawing  away  upon  his  fiddle  till  he  made  all  crack 


THE  VILLAGE  OF  A  UTEUIL.  41 

again.  Then  came  the  happy  bridegroom,  dressed  in  his 
Sunday  suit  of  blue,  with  a  large  nosegay  in  his  button 
hole  ;  and  close  beside  him  his  blushing  bride,  with 
downcast  eyes,  clad  in  a  white  robe  and  slippers,  and  wear 
ing  a  wreath  of  white  roses  in  her  hair.  The  friends  and 
relatives  brought  up  the  procession ;  and  a  troop  of  vil 
lage  urchins  came  shouting  along  in  the  rear,  scrambling 
among  themselves  for  the  largess  of  sous  and  sugar-plums 
that  now  and  then  issued  in  large  handfuls  from  the 
pockets  of  a  lean  man  in  black,  who  seemed  to  officiate 
as  master  of  ceremonies  on  the  occasion.  I  gazed  on  the 
procession  till  i  t  was  out  of  sight ;  and  when  the  last 
wheeze  of  the  clarionet  died  upon  my  ear,  I  could  not 
help  thinking  how  happy  were  they  who  were  thus  to 
dwell  together  in  the  peaceful  bosom  of  their  native  vil 
lage,  far  from  the  gilded  misery  and  the  pestilential  vices 
of  the  town. 

On  the  evening  of  the  same  day  I  was  sitting  by  the 
window,  enjoying  the  freshness  of  the  air  and  the  beauty 
and  stillness  of  the  hour,  when  I  heard  the  distant  and 
solemn  hymn  of  the  Catholic  burial-service,  at  first  so 
faint  and  indistinct  that  it  seemed  an  illusion.  It  rose 
mournfully  on  the  hush  of  the  evening, — died  gradually 
away, — then  ceased.  Then  it  rose  again,  nearer  and 
more  distinct,  and  soon  after  a  funeral  procession  ap 
peared,  and  passed  directly  beneath  my  window.  It  was 
led  by  a  priest,  bearing  the  banner  of  the  church,  and 
followed  by  two  boys,  holding  long  flambeaux  in  their 
hands.  Next  came  a  double  file  of  priests  in  white  sur 
plices,  with  a  missal  in  one  hand  and  a  lighted  wax  i;iper 
in  the  other,  chanting  the  funeral  dirge  at  intervals, — now 
pausing,  and  then  again  taking  up  the  mournful  burden 
of  their  lamentation,  accompanied  by  others,  who  played 


42  THE  VILLAGE  OF  AUTEUIL. 

upon  a  rude  kind  of  horn,  with  a,  dismal  and  wailing 
Bound.  Then  followed  various  symbols  of  the  church, 
and  the  bier  borne  on  the  shoulders  of  four  men.  The 
coffin  was  covered  with  a  black  velvet  pall,  and  a  chaplet 
of  white  flowers  lay  upon  it,  indicating  that  the  deceased 
was  unmarried.  A  few  of  the  villagers  came  behind, 
clad  in  mourning  robes,  and  bearing  lighted  tapers.  The 
procession  pacsed  slowly  along  the  same  street  that  in 
the  morning  had  been  thronged  by  the  gay  bridal  com 
pany.  A  melancholy  train  of  thought  forced  itself  home 
upon  my  mind.  The  joys  and  sorrows  of  this  world  are 
strikingly  mingled  !  Our  mirth  and  grief  are  brought 
so  mournfully  in  contact !  We  laugh  while  others  weep, 
— and  others  rejoice  when  we  are  sad  !  The  light  heart 
and  the  heavy  walk  side  by  side  and  go  about  together! 
Beneath  the  same  roof  are  spread  the  wedding-feast  and 
the  funeral-pall !  The  bridal-song  mingles  with  the 
burial-hymn  !  One  goes  to  the  marriage-bed,  another  to 
the  grave  ;  and  all  is  mutable,  uncertain,  and  transitory  ! 
It  is  with  sensations  of  pure  delight  that  I  recur  to  the 
brief  period  of  my  existence  which  was  passed  in  the 
peaceful  shades  of  Auteuil.  There  is  one  kind  of  wis 
dom  which  we  learn  from  the  world,  and  another  kind 
which  can  be  acquired  in  solitude  only.  In  cities  we 
study  those  around  us ;  but  in  the  retirement  of  the 
country  we  learn  to  know  ourselves.  The  voice  within 
us  is  more  distinctly  audible  in  the  stillness  of  the  place  ; 
and  the  gentler  affections  of  our  nature  spring  up  more 
freshly  in  its  tranquillity  and  sunshine, — nurtured  by  the 
healthy  principle  which  we  inhale  with  the  pure  air,  and 
invigorated  by  the  genial  influences  which  descend  into 
the  heart  from  the  quiet  of  the  sylvan  solitude  around, 
and  the  soft  serenity  of  the  sky  above. 


JACQUELINE. 

Death  lius  on  her,  like  an  untimely  frost, 
Upon  the  sweetest  flower  of  all  the  field. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

"  1T\EAR  mother,  is  it  not  the  bell  I  hear  ?" 

,\~J  "  Yes,  my  child  ;  the  bell  for  morning  prayers. 
It  is  Sunday  to-day." 

"  I  had  forgotten  it.  But  now  all  days  are  alike  to  me. 
Hark  !  it  sounds  again, — louder, — louder.  Open  the 
window,  for  I  love  the  sound.  There,  the  sunshine  and 
the  fresh  morning  air  revive  me.  And  the  church-bell, — 0 
mother, — it  reminds  me  of  the  holy  Sunday  mornings  by 
the  Loire, — so  calm,  so  hushed,  so  beautiful  !  Now  give 
me  my  prayer-book,  and  draw  the  curtain  back,  that  I  may 
see  the  green  trees  and  the  church  spire.  I  feel  better 
to-day,  dear  mother." 

It  was  a  bright,  cloudless  morning  in  August.  The  dew 
sfill  glistened  on  the  trees  ;  and  a  slight  breeze  wafted  to 
the  sick-chamber  of  Jacqueline  the  song  of  the  birds,  the 
rustle  of  the  leaves,  and  the  solemn  chime  of  the  church- 
bells.  She  had  been  raised  up  in  bed,  and,  reclining  upon 
the  pillow,  was  gazing  wistfully  upon  the  quiet  scene 
without.  Her  mother  gave  her  the  prayer-book,  and  then 
turned  away  to  hide  a  tear  that  stole  down  her  cheek. 

At  length  the  bells  ceased.     Jacqueline  crossed  herself, 

kissed  a  pearl  crucifix  that  hung  around  her  neck,  and 

opened  the  silver  clasps  of  her  missal.     For  a  time  she 

seemed  wholly  absorbed  in  her  devotions.    Her  lips  moved, 

43 


44  JACQUELINE. 

but  no  sound  was  audible.  At  intervals  the  solemn  voice 
of  the  priest  was  heard  at  a  distance,  and  then  the  con 
fused  responses  of  the  congregation,  dying  away  in  inar 
ticulate  murmurs.  Ere  long  the  thrilling  chant  of  the 
Catholic  service  broke  upon  the  ear.  At  first  it  was  low, 
solemn,  and  indistinct ;  then  it  became  more  earnest  and 
entreating,  as  if  interceding  and  imploring  pardon  for  sin  ; 
and  then  arose  louder  and  louder,  full,  harmonious,  majes 
tic,  as  it  wafted  the  song  of  praise  to  heaven — and  sud 
denly  ceased.  Then  the  sweet  tones  of  the  organ  were 
heard, — trembling,  thrilling,  and  rising  higher  and  higher, 
and  filling  the  whole  air  with  their  rich,  melodious  music. 
What  exquisite  accords  ! — what  noble  harmonies  ! — what 
touching  pathos  !  The  soul  of  the  sick  girl  seemed  to 
kindle  into  more  ardent  devotion,  and  to  be  rapt  away  to 
heaven  in  the  full,  harmonious  chorus,  as  it  swelled 
onward,  doubling  and  redoubling,  and  rolling  upward  in 
a  full  burst  of  rapturous  devotion  !  Then  all  was  hushed 
again.  Once  more  the  low  sound  of  the  bell  smote  the 
air,  and  announced  the  elevation  of  the  host.  The  invalid 
seemed  entranced  in  prayer.  Her  book  had  fallen  beside 
her, — her  hands  were  clasped, — her  eyes  closed, — her  soul 
retired  within  its  secret  chambers.  Then  a  more  tri 
umphant  peal  of  bells  arose.  The  tears  gushed  from  her 
closed  and  swollen  lids ;  her  cheek  was  flushed ;  she 
opened  her  dark  eyes,  and  fixed  them  with  an  expression 
of  deep  adoration  and  penitence  upon  an  image  of  the 
Saviour  on  the  cross,  which  hung  at  the  foot  of  her  bed, 
and  her  lips  again  moved  in  prayer.  Her  countenance 
expressed  the  deepest  resignation.  She  seemed  to  ask  only 
that  she  might  die  in  peace,  and  go  to  the  bosom  of  her 
Redeemer. 
The  mother  was  kneeling  by  the  window,  with  her  face 


JACQUELINE.  45 

concealed  in  the  folds  of  the  curtain.  She  arose,  and, 
going  to  the  bedside  of  her  child,  threw  her  arms  around 
her  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  My  dear  mother,  I  shall  not  live  long  ;  I  feel  it  here. 
This  piercing  pain, — at  times  it  seizes  me,  and  I  cannot — 
cannot  breathe." 

"  My  child,  you  will  be  better  soon." 

"  Yes,  mother,  I  shall  be  better  soon.  All  tears,  and 
pain,  and  sorrow  will  be  over.  The  hymn  of  adoration 
and  entreaty  I  have  just  heard,  I  shall  never  hear  again  on 
earth.  Next  Sabbath,  mother,  kneel  again  by  that  win 
dow  as  to-day.  I  shall  not  be  here,  upon  this  bed  of  pain 
and  sickness  ;  but  when  you  hear  the  solemn  hymn  of 
worship,  and  the  beseeching  tones  that  wing  the  spirit  up 
to  God,  think,  mother,  that  I  am  there,  with  my  sweet 
sister  who  has  gone  before  us, — kneeling  at  our  Saviour's 
feet,  and  happy, — 0,  how  happy  ! " 

The  afflicted  mother  made  no  reply, — her  heart  was  too 
full  to  speak. 

"  You  remember,  mother,  how  calmly  Amie  died.  Poor 
child,  she  was  so  young  and  beautiful  !  I  always  pray  that 
I  may  die  as  she  did.  I  do  not  fear  death,  as  I  did  before 
she  was  taken  from  us.  But,  ^, — this  pain, — this  cruel 
pain  ! — it  seems  to  draw  my  ^.ind  back  from  heaven. 
When  it  leaves  me,  I  shall  die  in  peace." 

"  My  poor  child  !    God's  holy  will  be  done  !  " 

The  invalid  soon  sank  into  a  quiet  slumber.  The 
excitement  was  over,  and  exhausted  nature  sought  relief 
in  sleep. 

The  persons  between  whom  this  scene  passed  were  a 
widow  and  her  sick  daughter,  from  the  neighborhood  of 
Tours.  They  had  left  the  banks  of  the  Loire  to  consult 
the  more  experienced  physicians  of  the  metropolis,  and 


46  JACQUELINE. 

had  been  directed  to  the  Maison  de  sante  at  Auteuil  for  the 
benefit  of  the  pure  air.  But  all  in  vain.  The  health  of  the 
uncomplaining  patient  grew  worse  and  worse,  and  it  soon 
became  evident  that  the  closing  scene  was  drawing  near. 

Of  this  Jacqueline  herself  seemed  conscious ;  and 
towards  evening  she  expressed  a  wish  to  receive  the  last 
sacraments  of  the  church.  A  priest  was  sent  for ;  and 
ere  long  the  tinkling  of  a  little  bell  in  the  street  an 
nounced  his  approach.  He  bore  in  his  hand  a  silver  vase 
containing  the  consecrated  wafer,  and  a  small  vessel 
filled  with  the  holy  oil  of  the  extreme  unction  hung  from 
his  neck.  Before  him  walked  a  boy  carrying  a  little  bell, 
whose  sound  announced  the  passing  of  these  symbols  of 
the  Catholic  faith.  In  the  rear,  a  few  of  the  villagers, 
bearing  lighted  wax  tapers,  formed  a  short  and  melan 
choly  procession.  They  soon  entered  the  sick-chamber, 
and  the  glimmer  of  the  tapers  mingled  with  the  red  light 
of  the  setting  sun  that  shot  his  farewell  rays  through  the 
open  window.  The  vessel  of  oil  and  the  vase  containing 
the  consecrated  wafer  were  placed  upon  the  table  in  front 
of  a  crucifix  that  hung  upon  the  wall,  and  all  present, 
excepting  the  priest,  threw  themselves  upon  their  knees. 
The  priest  then  approached  the  bed  of  the  dying  girl,  and 
said,  in  a  slow  and  solemn  tone, — 

"  The  King  of  kings  and  Lord  of  lords  has  passed  thy 
threshold.  Is  thy  spirit  ready  to  receive  him  ?  " 

•"'It  is,  father." 

"  Hast  thou  confessed  thy  sins  ?  " 

"  Holy  father,  no." 

"  Confess  thyself,  then,  that  thy  sins  may  be  forgiven, 
and  thy  name  recorded  in  the  book  of  life." 

And,  turning  to  the  kneeling  crowd  around,  he  waved 
his  hand  for  them  to  retire,  and  was  left  alone  with  the 


JACQUELINE.  47 

sick  girl.  He  seated  himself  beside  her  pillow,  and  tho 
subdued  whisper  of  the  confession  mingled  with  the  mur 
mur  of  the  evening  air,  which  lifted  the  heavy  folds  of 
the  curtains,  and  stole  in  upon  the  holy  scene.  Poor 
Jacqueline  had  few  sins  to  confess, — a  secret  thought  cr 
two  towards  the  pleasures  and  delights  of  the  world, — a 
wish  to  live,  unuttered,  but  which,  to  the  eye  of  her  self- 
accusing  spirit,  seemed  to  resist  the  wise  providence  of 
God ; — no  more.  The  confession  of  a  meek  and  lowly 
heart  is  soon  made.  The  door  was  again  opened ;  the 
attendants  entered,  and  knelt  around  the  bed,  and  the 
priest  proceeded, — 

''And  now  prepare  thyself  to  receive  with  contrite 
heart  the  body  of  our  blessed  Lord  and  Eedeemer.  Dost 
thou  believe  that  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  was  conceived  by 
the  Holy  Spirit,  and  born  of  the  Virgin  Mary  ?  " 

"  I  believe." 

And  all  present  joined  in  the  solemn  response, — 

"I  believe." 

"  Dost  thou  believe  that  the  Father  is  God,  that  the 
Son  is  God,  and  that  the  Holy  Spirit  is  God, — three 
persons  and  one  God  ?  " 

"I  believe." 

"  Dost  thou  believe  that  the  Son  is  seated  on  the  right 
hand  of  the  Majesty  on  high,  whence  he  shall  come  to 
judge  the  quick  and  the  dead  ?  " 

"I  believe." 

"  Dost  thou  believe  that  by  the  holy  sacraments  of  the 
church  thy  sins  are  forgiven  thee,  and  that  thus  thou  yrt- 
made  worthy  of  eternal  life  ?  " 

"I  believe." 

"  Dost  thou  pardon,  with  all  thy  heart,  all  who  hav* 
offended  thee  in  thought,  word,  or  deed  ?  " 


48  JACQUELINE. 

"I  pardon  them." 

' '  And  dost  tliou  ask  pardon  of  God  and  thy  neighboi 
for  all  offences  thou  hast  committed  against  them,  eithei 
in  thought,  word  or  deed?" 

"I  do!" 

"  Then  repeat  after  me, — 0  Lord  Jesus,  I  am  not 
worthy,  nor  do  I  merit,  that  thy  divine  majesty  should 
enter  this  poor  tenement  of  clay ;  but,  according  to  thy 
holy  promises,  be  my  sins  forgiven,  and  my  soul  washed 
white  from  all  transgression." 

Then,  taking  a  consecrated  wafer  from  the  vase,  he 
placed  it  between  the  lips  of  the  dying  girl,  and,  while 
the  assistant  sounded  the  little  silver  bell,  said, — 

"  Corpus  Domini  nostri  Jesu  Christi  custodial  animam 
tuam  in  vitam  eternam." 

And  the  kneeling  crowd  smote  their  breasts  and  re 
sponded  in  one  solemn  voice, — 

"Amen!" 

The  priest  then  took  from  the  silver  box  on  the  table 
a  little  golden  rod,  and,  dipping  it  in  holy  oil,  anointed 
the  invalid  upon  the  hands,  feet,  and  breast  in  the  form 
of  the  cross.  When  these  ceremonies  were  completed, 
the  priest  and  his  attendants  retired,  leaving  the  mother 
alone  with  her  dying  child,  who,  from  the  exhaustion 
caused  by  the  preceding  scene,  sank  into  a  deathlike  sleep. 

"  Between  two  worlds  life  hovered  like  a  star, 
'Twixt  night  and  morn,  upon  the  horizon's  verge." 

The  long  twilight  of  the  summer  evening  stole  on  ;  the 
shadows  deepened  without,  and  the  night-lamp  glimmered 
feebly  in  the  sick-chamber ;  but  still  she  slept.  She  was 
lying  with  her  hands  clasped  upon  her  breast, — her  pallid 
cheeK  resting  upon  the  pillow,  and  her  bloodless  lips 


JACqUELlNE.  49 

apart,  but  motionless  and  silent  as  the  sleep  of  death. 
Not  a  breath  interrupted  the  silence  of  her  slumber.  Not 
a  movement  of  the  heavy  and  sunken  eyelid,  not  a  trem 
bling  of  the  lip,  not  a  shadow  on  the  marble  brow,  told 
when  the  spirit  took  its  flight.  It  passed  to  a  better  world 
than  this  : — 

"  There  's  a  perpetual  spring, — perpetual  youth  ; 
No  joint-benumbing  cold,  nor  scorching  haat, 
Famine,  nor  age,  have  any  being  there." 
3 


THE  SEXAGENARIAN. 

Do  you  eet  down  your  name  in  the  scroll  of  youth,  that  are  written  down  old. 
with  all  the  characters  of  age  f  Have  you  not  a  moist  eye,  a  dry  hand,  a  yellow 
cheek,  a  white  l»eard,  a  decreasing  kg  ?  SHAKESPEAHE. 

r~pHERE  he  goes,  in  his  long  russet  surtout,  sweeping 
J-  down  yonder  gravel-walk,  beneath  the  trees,  like  a 
yellow  leaf  in  autumn  wafted  along  by  a  fitful  gust  of 
wind.  Now  he  pauses, — now  seems  to  be  whirled  round 
in  an  eddy, — and  now  rustles  and  brushes  onward  again. 
He  is  talking  to  himself  in  an  undertone,  as  usual,  and 
flourishes  a  pinch  of  snuff  between  his  forefinger  and  his 
thumb,  ever  and  anon  drumming  on  the  cover  of  his  box, 
by  way  of  emphasis,  with  a  sound  like  the  tap  of  a  wood 
pecker.  He  always  takes  a  morning  walk  in  the  garden, 
— in  fact,  I  may  say  he  passes  the  greater  part  of  the  day 
there,  either  strolling  up  and  down  the  gravel-walks,  or 
sitting  on  a  rustic  bench  in  one  of  the  leafy  arbors.  He 
always  wears  that  same  dress,  too ;  at  least  I  have  never 
seen  him  in  any  other;  a  bell-crowned  hat,  a  frilled 
bosom,  and  white  dimity  waistcoat  soiled  with  snuff, — • 
light  nankeen  smalls,  and,  over  all,  that  long  and  flowing 
surtout  of  russet-brown  Circassian,  hanging  in  wrinkles 
round  his  slender  body,  and  toying  with  his  thin,  rakish 
legs.  Such  is  his  constant  garb,  morning  and  evening ; 
and  it  gives  him  a  cool  and  breezy  look,  even  in  the  heat 
of  a  noonday  in  August. 

The  personage  sketched  in  the  preceding   paragraph 
is  Monsieur  d'Argentville,  a  sexagenarian,  with  whom  I 
50 


THE  SEXAGENARIAN.  51 

became  acquainted  during  my  residence  at  the  Maison  de 
sante  of  Auteuil.  I  found  him  there,  and  left  him  there. 
Nobody  knew  when  he  came, — he  had  been  there  from 
time  immemorial ;  nor  when  he  was  going  away, — for  he 
himself  did  not  know  ;  nor  what  ailed  him, — for  though 
he  was  always  complaining,  yet  he  grew  neither  better 
nor  worse,  never  consulted  the  physician,  and  ate  vora 
ciously  three  times  a  day.  At  table  he  was  rather  peev 
ish,  troubled  his  neighbors  with  his  elbows,  and  uttered 
the  monosyllable  pish  !  rather  of  tener  than  good  breeding 
and  a  due  deference  to  the  opinions  of  others  seemed  to 
justify.  As  soon  as  he  seated  himself  at  table,  he  breathed 
into  his  tumbler,  and  wiped  it  out  with  a  napkin ;  then 
wiped  his  plate,  his  spoon,  his  knife  and  fork  in  succes 
sion,  and  each  with  great  care.  After  this  he  placed  the 
napkin  under  his  chin  by  way  of  bib  and  tucker ;  and, 
these  preparations  being  completed,  gave  full  swing  to  an 
appetite  which  was  not  inappropriately  denominated,  by 
one  of  our  guests,  "  unefaim  canine." 

The  old  gentleman's  weak  side  was  an  affectation  of 
vouth  and  gallantry.  Though  "  written  down  old,  with 
all  the  characters  of  age,"  yet  at  times  he  seemed  to  think 
himself  in  the  heyday  of  life  ;  and  the  assiduous  court  he 
paid  to  a  fair  countess,  who  was  passing  the  summer  at 
the  Maison  de  sante,  was  the  source  of  no  little  merri 
ment  to  all  but  himself.  He  loved,  too,  to  recall  the 
golden  age  of  his  amours  ;  and  would  discourse  with  pro 
lix  eloquence,  and  a  faint  twinkle  in  his  watery  eye,  of 
his  bonnes  fortunes  in  times  of  old,  and  the  rigors  that 
many  a  fair  dame  had  suffered  on  his  account.  Indeed, 
his  chief  pride  seemed  to  be  to  make  his  hearers  believe 
that  he  had  been  a  dangerous  man  in  his  youth,  and 
not  yet  quite  safe. 


52  THE  SEXAGENARIAN. 

As  I  also  was  a  peripatetic  of  the  garden,  we  encoun« 
tered  each  other  at  every  turn.  At  first  our  conversation 
was  limited  to  the  usual  salutations  of  the  day  ;  but  ere 
long  our  casual  acquaintance  ripened  into  a  kind  of  inti 
macy.  Step  by  step  I  won  my  way, — first  into  his  society, 
—then  into  his  snuff-box, — and  then  into  his  heart.  He 
was  a  great  talker,  and  he  found  in  me  what  he  found  in 
no  other  inmate  of  the  house, : — a  good  listener,  who  never 
interrupted  his  long  stories,  nor  contradicted  his  opinions. 
So  he  talked  down  one  alley  and  up  another, — from  break 
fast  till  dinner, — from  dinner  till  midnight, — at  all  times 
And  in  all  places,  when  he  could  catch  me  by  the  button, 
till  at  last  he  had  confided  to  my  ear  all  the  important 
and  unimportant  events  of  a  life  of  sixty  years. 

Monsieur  d'Argentville  was  a  shoot  from  a  wealthy 
family  of  Nantes.  Just  before  the  Revolution,  he  went 
up  to  Paris  to  study  law  at  the  University,  and,  like 
many  other  wealthy  scholars  of  his  age,  was  soon  involved 
in  the  intrigues  and  dissipation  of  the  metropolis.  He 
first  established  himself  in  the  Rue  de  I'Universite  ;  but  a 
roguish  pair  of  eyes  at  an  opposite  window  soon  drove 
from  the  field  such  heavy  tacticians  as  Hugues  Doneau 
and  Gui  Coquille.  A  flirtation  was  commenced  in  due 
form  ;  and  a  flag  of  truce,  offering  to  capitulate,  was 
sent  in  the  shape  of  a  billet-doux.  In  the  meantime  he 
regularly  amused  his  leisure  hours  by  blowing  kisses  across 
the  street  with  an  old  pair  of  bellows.  One  afternoon,  as 
he  was  occupied  in  this  way,  a  tall  gentleman  with  whis 
kers  stepped  into  the  room,  just  as  he  had  charged  the 
bellows  to  the  muzzle.  He  muttered  something  about  an 
explanation, — his  sister, — marriage, — and  the  satisfaction 
of  a  gentleman  !  Perhaps  there  is  no  situation  in  life  so 
awkward  to  a  man  of  real  sensibility  as  that  of  being  awed 


THE  SEXAGENARIAN.  53 

into  matrimony  or  a  duel  by  the  whiskers  of  a  tall  brother. 
There  was  but  one  alternative  ;  and  the  next  morning  a 
placard  at  the  window  of  the  Bachelor  of  Love,  with  tho 
words  "  Furnished  Apartment  to  let,"  showed  that  the 
former  occupant  had  found  it  convenient  to  change 
lodgings. 

He  next  appeared  in  the  Chaussee-d'Aiitin,  where  he 
assiduously  prepared  himself  for  future  exigencies  by  a 
course  of  daily  lessons  in  the  use  of  the  small-sword.  He 
soon  after  quarrelled  with  his  best  friend,  about  a  little 
actress  on  the  Boulevard,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  being 
jilted,  and  then  run  through  the  body  at  the  Bois  de 
Boulogne.  This  gave  him  new  eclat  in  the  fashionable 
world,  and  consequently  he  pursued  pleasure  with  a  keener 
relish  than  ever.  He  next  had  the  grande  passion,  and 
narrowly  escaped  marrying  an  heiress  of  great  expecta 
tions,  and  a  countless  number  of  chateaux.  Just  before 
the  catastrophe,  however,  he  had  the  good  fortune  to  dis 
cover  that  the  lady's  expectations  were  limited  to  his  own 
pocket,  and  that,  as  for  her  chateaux,  they  were  all 
Chateaux  en  Espagne. 

About  this  time  his  father  died ;  and  the  hopeful  son 
\va>  hardly  well  established  in  his  inheritance,  when  the 
Revolution  broke  out.  Unfortunately  he  was  a  firm 
upholder  of  the  divine  right  of  kings,  and  had  the  honor 
of  being  among  the  first  of  the  proscribed.  He  narrowly 
escaped  the  guillotine  by  jumping  on  board  a  vessel 
bound  for  America,  and  arrived  at  Boston  with  only  a 
few  francs  in  his  pocket ;  but,  as  he  knew  how  to  accom 
modate  himself  to  circumstances,  he  contrived  to  live 
along  by  teaching  fencing  and  French,  and  keeping  a 
dancing-school  and  a  milliner. 

At  the   restoration  of  the  Bourbons,    he   returned  to 


54  THE  SEXAGENARIAN. 

France  ;  and  from  that  time  to  the  day  of  our  acquaint 
ance  had  been  engaged  in  a  series  of  vexatious  lawsuits, 
in  the  hope  of  recovering  a  portion  of  his  property,  which 
had  been  intrusted  to  a  friend  for  safe  keeping  at  the 
commencement  of  the  Revolution.  His  friend,  however, 
denied  all  knowledge  of  the  transaction,  and  the  assign 
ment  was  very  difficult  to  prove.  Twelve  years  of  un 
successful  litigation  had  completely  soured  the  old  gen 
tleman's  temper,  and  made  him  peevish  and  misanthropic  ; 
and  he  had  come  to  Auteuil  merely  to  escape  the  noise  of 
the  city,  and  to  brace  his  shattered  nerves  with  pure  air 
and  quiet  amusements.  There  he  idled  the  time  away, 
sauntering  about  the  garden  of  the  Maison  de  sante, 
talking  to  himself  when  he  could  get  no  other  listener, 
and  occasionally  reinforcing  his  misanthropy  with  a  dose 
of  the  Maxims  of  La  Rochefoucauld,  or  a  visit  to  the 
scene  of  his  duel  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne. 

Poor  Monsieur  d'Argentville  !  What  a  miserable  life 
he  led, — or  rather  dragged  on,  from  day  to  day !  A 
petulant,  broken-down  old  man,  who  had  outlived  his 
fortune,  and  his  friends,  and  his  hopes, — yea,  everything 
but  the  sting  of  bad  passions  and  the  recollection  of  a  life 
ill-spent !  Whether  he  still  walks  the  earth  or  slumbers  in 
its  bosom,  I  know  not ;  but  a  lively  recollection  of  him  will 
always  mingle  with  my  reminiscences  of  Auteuil. 


P£EE  LA  CHAISE. 


Onr  fathers  find  their  graves  in  our  short  memories,  and  sadly  tell  ns  how  we 
may  be  buried  in  our  survivors. 

Oblivion  is  not  to  be  hired.  The  greater  part  must  be  content  to  be  as  though 
they  had  not  been,— to  be  found  in  the  register  of  God,  not  in  the  record  of  man. 

SIR  THOMAS  BROWNE'S  URN  BURIAL. 


cemetery  of  Pere  la  Chaise  is  the  Westminster 
Abbey  of  Paris.  Both  are  the  dwellings  of  the  dead  ; 
but  in  one  they  repose  in  green  alleys  and  beneath  the 
open  sky, — in  the  other  their  resting-place  is  in  the 
shadowy  aisle,  and  beneath  the  dim  arches  of  an  ancient 
abbey.  One  is  a  temple  of  nature  ;  the  other  a  temple  of 
art.  In  one,  the  soft  melancholy  of  the  scene  is  rendered 
still  more  touching  by  the  warble  of  birds  and  the  shade 
of  trees,  and  the  grave  receives  the  gentle  visit  of  the  sun 
shine  and  the  shower  :  in  the  other,  no  sound  but  the  pass 
ing  footfall  breaks  the  silence  of  the  place  ;  the  twilight 
steals  in  through  high  and  dusky  windows  ;  and  the  damps 
of  the  gloomy  vault  lie  heavy  on  the  heart,  and  leave  their 
stain  upon  the  mouldering  tracery  of  the  tomb. 

Pere  la  Chaise  stands  just  beyond  the  Barriere  d'Aul- 
ney,  on  a  hill-side,  looking  towards  the  city.  Numerous 
gravel- walks  winding  through  shady  avenues  and  between 
marble  monuments,  lead  up  from  the  principal  entrance 
to  a  chapel  on  the  summit.  There  is  hardly  a  grave 
that  has  not  its  little  enclosure  planted  with  shrubbery  ; 
and  a  thick  mass  of  foliage  half  conceals  each  funeral 
Btone.  The  sighing  of  the  wind,  as  the  branches  rise  and 
55  ' 


56  PfiRE  LA  CHAISE. 

fall  upon  it, — the  occasional  note  of  a  bird  among  the 
trees,  and  the  shifting  of  light  and  shade  upon  the  tombs 
beneath,  have  a  soothing  effect  upon  the  mind ;  and  I 
doubt  whether  any  one  can  enter  that  enclosure,  where  re= 
pose  the  dust  and  ashes  of  so  many  great  and  good  men, 
without  feeling  the  religion  of  the  place  steal  over  him, 
and  seeing  something  of  the  dark  and  gloomy  expression 
pass  off  from  the  stern  countenance  of  death. 

It  was  near  the  close  of  a  bright  summer  afternoon  that  1 
visited  this  celebrated  spot  for  the  first  time.  The  first  ob 
ject  that  arrested  my  attention,  on  entering,  was  a,  monu 
ment  in  the  form  of  a  small  Gothic  chapel,  which  stands 
near  the  entrance,  in  the  avenue  leading  to  the  right  hand. 
On  the  marble  couch  within  are  stretched  two  figures, 
in  carved  stone  and  dressed  in  the  antique  garb  of  the  Mid 
dle  Ages.  It  is  the  tomb  of  Abelard  and  Heloi'se.  The  his 
tory  of  these  unfortunate  lovers  is  too  well  known  to  need 
recapitulation  ;  but  perhaps  it  is  not  so  well  known  how 
often  their  ashes  were  disturbed  in  the  slumber  of  the  grave. 
Abelard  died  in  the  monastery  of  Saint  Marcel,  and  was 
buried  in  the  vaults  of  the  church.  His  body  was  afterward 
removed  to  the  convent  of  the  Paraclet,  at  the  request  of 
Heloi'se,  and  at  her  death  her  body  was  deposited  in  the 
same  tomb.  Three  centuries  they  reposed  together  ;  after 
which  they  were  separated  to  different  sides  of  the  church, 
to  calm  the  delicate  scruples  of  the  lady-abbess  of  the 
convent.  More  than  a  century  afterward  they  were  again 
united  in  the  same  tomb  ;  and  when  at  length  the  Para 
clet  was  destroyed,  these  mouldering  remains  were 
transported  to  the  church  of  Nogent-sur-Seine.  They 
were  next  deposited  in  an  ancient  cloister  at  Paris  ;  and 
now  repose  near  the  gateway  of  the  cemetery  of  Pere  la 
Chaise.  What  a  singular  destiny  was  theirs  !  that,  after 


PERE  LA  CHAISE.  57 

a,  life  of  such  passionate  and  disastrous  love, — such  sor 
rows,  and  tears,  and  penitence, — their  very  dust  should 
not  be  suffered  to  rest  quietly  in  the  grave  ! — that  their 
death  should  so  much  resemble  their  life  in  its  changes 
and  vicissitudes,  its  partings  and  its  meetings,  its  inquie 
tudes  and  persecutions  ! — that  mistaken  zeal  should  fol 
low  them  down  to  the  very  tomb, — as  if  earthly  passion 
could  glimmer,  like  a  funeral  lamp,  amid  the  damps  of 
the  charnel-house,  and  "even  in  their  ashes  burn  their 
wonted  fires  ! " 

As  I  gazed  on  the  sculptured  forms  before  me,  and  the 
little  chapel,  whose  Gothic  roof  seemed  to  protect  their 
marble  sleep,  my  busy  memory  swung  back  the  dark 
portals  of  the  past,  and  the  picture  of  their  sad  and  event 
ful  lives  came  up  before  me  in  the  gloomy  distance.  "What 
a  lesson  for  those  who  are  endowed  with  the  fatal  gift  of 
genius  !  It  would  seem,  indeed,  that  He  who  "  tempers 
the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb  "  tempers  also  his  chastise 
ments  to  the  errors  and  infirmities  of  a  weak  and  simple 
mind, — while  the  transgressions  of  him  upon  whose 
nature  are  more  strongly  marked  the  intellectual  attributes 
of  the  Deity  are  followed,  even  upon  earth,  by  severer 
tokens  of  the  Divine  displeasure.  He  who  sins  in  the  dark 
ness  of  a  benighted  intellect  sees  not  so  clearly,  through 
the  shadows  that  surround  him,  the  countenance  of  an 
offended  God  ;  but  he  who  sins  in  the  broad  noonday  of  a 
clear  and  radiant  mind,  when  at  length  the  delirium  of 
sensual  passion  has  subsided,  and  the  cloud  flits  away 
from  before  the  sun,  trembles  beneath  the  searching  eye 
of  that  accusing  power  which  is  strong  in  the  strength  of  a 
godlike  intellect.  Thus  the  mind  and  the  heart  are  closely 
linked  together,  and  the  errors  of  genius  bear  with  them 
their  own  chastisement,  even  upon  earth.  The  history  of 
3* 


58  PERE  LA  CHAISE. 

Abelard  and  Heloise  is  an  illustration  of  this  truth.  But 
at  length  they  sleep  well.  Their  lives  are  like  u  tale  that 
is  told  ;  their  errors  are  "  folded  up  like  a  book " ;  and 
what  mortal  hand  shall  break  the  seal  that  death  has  set 
upon  them  ? 

Leaving  this  interesting  tomb  behind  me,  I  took  a 
pathway  to  the  left,  which  conducted  me  up  the  hill-side. 
I  soon  found  myself  in  the  deep  shade  of  heavy  foliage, 
where  the  branches  of  the  yew  and  willow  mingled,  inter 
woven  with  the  tendrils  and  blossoms  of  the  honeysuckle. 
I  now  stood  in  the  most  populous  part  of  this  city  of 
tombs.  Every  step  awakened  a  new  train  of  thrilling 
recollections  ;  for  at  every  step  my  eye  caught  the  name 
of  some  one  whose  glory  had  exalted  the  character  of 
his  native  land,  and  resounded  across  the  Avaters  of  the 
Atlantic.  Philosophers,  historians,  musicians,  warriors, 
and  poets  slept  side  by  side  around  me  ;  some  beneath 
the  gorgeous  monument,  and  some  beneath  the  simple 
headstone.  There  were  the  graves  of  Fourcroi  and 
Haiiy  ;  of  Ginguene  and  Volney  ;  of  Gretry  and  Mehul  ; 
of  Key,  and  Foy,  and  Massena ;  of  La  Fontaine  and 
Moliere,  and  Chen^er  and  Delille  and  Parny.  But  the 
political  intrigue,  the  dream  of  science,  the  historical  re 
search,  the  ravishing  harmony  of  sound,  the  tried  cour 
age,  the  inspiration  of  the  lyre, — where  are  they  ?  With 
the  living,  and  not  with  the  dead  !  The  right  hand 
has  lost  its  cunning  in  the  grave ;  but  the  soul,  whose 
high  volitions  it  obeyed,  still  lives  to  reproduce  itself  in 
ages  yet  to  come. 

Among  these  graves  of  genius  I  observed  here  and 
there  a  splendid  monument,  which  had  been  raised  by 
the  pride  of  family  over  the  dust  of  men  who  could  lay  no 
claim  either  to  the  gratitude  or  remembrance  of  posterity. 


PERE  LA  CHAISE.  59 

Their  presence  seemed  like  an  intrusion  into  the  sanctu 
ary  of  genius.  What  had  wealth  to  do  there  ?  Why 
should  it  crowd  the  dust  of  the  great  ?  That  was  no 
thoroughfare  of  business, — no  mart  of  gain  J  There 
were  no  costly  banquets  there  ;  no  silken  garments,  nor 
gaudy  liveries,  nor  obsequious  attendants  !  "  What  ser 
vants,"  says  Jeremy  Taylor,  "  shall  we  have  to  wait  upon 
us  in  the  grave  ?  what  friends  to  visit  us  ?  what  officious 
people  to  cleanse  away  the  moist  and  unwholesome  cloud  re 
flected  upon  our  faces  from  the  sides  of  the  weeping  vaults, 
which  are  the  longest  weepers  for  our  funerals  ?"  Mate 
rial  wealth  gives  a  factitious  superiority  to  the  living,  but 
the  treasures  of  intellect  give  a  real  superiority  to  the  dead  ; 
and  the  rich  man,  who  would  not  deign  to  walk  the  street 
with  the  starving  and  penniless  man  of  genius,  deems  it 
an  honor,  when  death  has  redeemed  the  fame  of  the  neg 
lected,  to  have  his  own  ashes  laid  beside  him,  and  to 
claim  with  him  the  silent  companionship  of  the  grave. 

I  continued  my  walk  through  the  numerous  winding 
paths,  as  chance  or  curiosity  directed  me.  Now  I  was 
lost  in  a  little  green  hollow,  overhung  with  thick-leaved 
shrubbery,  and  then  came  out  upon  an  elevation,  from 
which,  through  an  opening  in  the  trees,  the  eye  caught 
glimpses  of  the  city,  and  the  little  esplanade,  at  the  foot 
of  the  hill,  where  the  poor  lie  buried.  There  poverty 
hires  its  grave,  and  takes  but  a  short  lease  of  the  narrow 
house.  At  the  end  of  a  few  months,  or  at  most  of  a  feW 
years,  the  tenant  is  dislodged  to  give  place  to  another, 
and  he  in  turn  to  a  third.  "  Who,"  says  Dr.  Thomas 
Browne,  "knows  the  fate  of  his  bones,  or  how  often  he  is 
to  be  buried  ?  Who  hath  the  oracle  of  his  ashes,  or 
whither  they  are  to  be  scattered  ?  " 

Yet,  even  in  that  neglected  corner,  the  hand  of  affeo 


60  PERE  LA  CHAISE, 

fcion  had  been  busy  in  decorating  the  hired  house.  Most 
of  the  graves  were  surrounded  with  a  slight  wooden  pal 
ing,  to  secure  them  from  the  passing  footstep  ;  there  was 
hardly  one  so  deserted  as  not  to  be  marked  with  its  little 
wooden  cross,  and  decorated  with  a  garland  of  flowers  ; 
and  here  and  there  I  could  perceive  a  solitary  mourner, 
clothed  in  black,  stooping  to  plant  a  shrub  on  the  grave, 
or  sitting  in  motionless  sorrow  beside  it. 

As  I  passed  on,  amid  the  shadowy  avenues  of  the  ceme 
tery,  I  could  not  help  comparing  my  own  impressions 
with  those  which  others  have  felt  when  walking  alone 
among  the  dwellings  of  the  dead.  Are,  then,  the  sculp 
tured  urn  and  storied  monument  nothing  more  than  sym 
bols  of  family  pride  ?  Is  all  I  see  around  me  a  memorial 
of  the  living  more  than  of  the  dead, — an  empty  show  of 
sorrow,  which  thus  vaunts  itself  in  mournful  pageant  and 
funeral  parade  ?  Is  it  indeed  true,  as  some  have  said,  that 
the  simple  wild-flower,  which  springs  spontaneously  upon 
the  grave,  and  the  rose,  which  the  hand  of  affection 
plants  there,  are  fitter  objects  wherewith  to  adorn  the 
narrow  house  ?  No  !  I  feel  that  it  is  not  so  !  Let  the 
good  and  the  great  be  honored  even  in  the  grave.  Let  the 
sculptured  marble  direct  our  footsteps  to  the  scene  of  their 
long  sleep  ;  let  the  chiselled  epitaph  repeat  their  names, 
and  tell  us  where  repose  the  nobly  good  and  wise  !  It  is 
not  true  that  all  are  equal  in  the  grave.  There  is  no 
equality  even  there.  The  mere  handful  of  dust  and  ashes, 
— the  mere  distinction  of  prince  and  beggar, — of  a  rich 
winding-sheet  and  a  shroudless  burial, — of  a  solitary  grave 
and  a  family  vault, — were  this  all, — then,  indeed,  it  would 
be  true  that  death  is  a  common  leveller.  Such  paltry  dis 
tinctions  as  those  of  wealth  and  poverty  are  soon  levelled 
by  the  spade  and  mattock  ;  the  damp  breath  of  the  grave 


PERE  LA  CHAISE.  61 

blots  them  out  forever.  But  there  are  other  distinctions 
which  even  the  mace  of  death  cannot  level  or  obliterate. 
Can  it  breakdown  the  distinction  of  virtue  and  vice? 
Can  it  confound  the  good  with  the  bad  ?  the  noble  with 
the  base  ?  all  that  is  truly  great,  and.  pure,  and  godlike, 
with  all  that  is  scorned,  and  sinful,  and  degraded  ?  No  ! 
Then  death  is  not  a  common  leveller !  Are  all  alike 
beloved  in  death  and  honored  in  their  burial  ?  Is  that 
ground  holy  where  the  bloody  hand  of  the  murderer  sleeps 
from  crime  ?  Does  every  grave  awaken  the  same  emo 
tions  in  our  hearts  ?  and  do  the  footsteps  of  the  stranger 
pause  as  long  beside  each  funeral-stone  ?  No  !  Then  all 
are  not  equal  in  the  grave  !  And  as  long  as  the  good  and 
evil  deeds  of  men  live  after  them,  so  long  will  there  be  dis 
tinctions  even  in  the  grave.  The  superiority  of  one  over 
another  is  in  the  nobler  and  better  emotions  which  it  ex 
cites  ;  in  its  more  fervent  admonitions  to  virtue  ;  in  the 
livelier  recollection  which  it  awakens  of  the  good  and  the 
great,  whose  bodies  are  crumbling  to  dust  beneath  our  feet ! 
If,  then,  there  are  distinctions  in  the  grave,  surely  it 
is  not  unwise  to  designate  them  by  the  external  marks  of 
honor.  These  outward  appliances  and  memorials  of  re 
spect, — the  mournful  urn, — the  sculptured  bust, — the 
epitaph  eloquent  in  praise, — cannot  indeed  create  these 
distinctions,  but  they  serve  to  mark  them.  It  is  only 
when  pride  or  wealth  builds  them  to  honor  the  slave  of 
mammon  or  the  slave  of  appetite,  when  the  voice  from  the 
grave  rebukes  the  false  and  pompous  epitaph,  and  the  dust 
and  ashes  of  the  tomb  seem  struggling  to  maintain  the  su< 
periority  of  mere  worldly  rank,  and  to  carry  into  the  grave 
the  bawbles  of  earthly  vanity, — it  is  then,  and  then  only, 
thai  we  feel  how  utterly  worthless  are  all  the  devices  of 
sculpture,  and  the  empty  pomp  of  monumental  brass  ! 


82  PERE  LA  CHAISE. 

After  rambling  leisurely  about  for  some  time,  reading 
the  inscriptions  on  the  various  monuments  which  at 
tracted  my  curiosity,  and  giving  way  to  the  different  re 
flections  they  suggested,  I  sat  down  to  rest  myself  on  a 
sunken  tombstone.  •  A  winding  gravel-walk,  overshaded 
by  an  avenue  of  trees,  and  lined  on  both  sides  with  richly 
sculptured  monuments,  had  gradually  conducted  me  to 
the  summit  of  the  hill,  upon  whose  slope  the  cemetery 
stands.  Beneath  me  in  the  distance,  and  dim-discovered 
through  the  misty  and  smoky  atmosphere  of  evening, 
rose  the  countless  roofs  and  spires  of  the  city.  Beyond, 
throwing  his  level  rays  athwart  the  dusky  landscape, 
sank  the  broad  red  sun.  The  distant  murmur  of  the 
city  rose  upon  my  ear  ;  and  the  toll  of  the  evening  bell 
came  up,  mingled  with  the  rattle  of  the  paved  street  and 
the  confused  sounds  of  labor.  What  an  hour  for  medita 
tion  !  What  a  contrast  between  the  metropolis  of  the 
living  and  the  metropolis  of  the  dead  !  I  could  not  help 
calling  to  my  mind  that  allegory  of  mortality,  written  fey 
a  hand  which  has  been  many  a  long  year  cold  : — 

"  Earth  goeth  upon  earth  as  man  upon  mould, 
Like  as  earth  upon  earth  never  go  should, 
Earth  goeth  upon  earth  as  glistening  gold, 
And  yet  shall  earth  unto  earth  rather  than  he  would. 

"  Lo,  earth  on  earth,  consider  thou  may, 
How  earth  cometh  to  earth  naked  alway, 
Why  shall  earth  upon  earth  go  stout  or  gay, 
Since  earth  out  of  earth  shall  pass  in  poor  array."  * 

*  I  subjoin  this  relic  of  old  English  verse  entire,  and  in  its  anti 
quated  language,  for  those  of  my  readers  who  may  have  an  anti 
quarian  taste.  It  is  copied  from  a  book  whose  title  I  have  forgotten, 
and  of  which  I  have  but  a  single  leaf,  containing  the  poem.  In  de- 


P ERE  LA  CHAISE.  63 

Before  I  left  the  graveyard  the  shades  of  evening  had 
fallen,  and  the  objects  around  me  grown  dim  and  indis 
tinct.  As  I  passed  the  gateway,  I  turned  to  take  a  part 
ing  look.  I  could  distinguish  only  the  chapel  on  the 
summit  of  the  hill,  and  here  and  there  a  lofty  obelisk  of 
snow-white  marble,  rising  from  the  black  and  heavy  ma.s.s 


scribing  the  antiquities  of  the  church  of  Stratford-upon-Avon,  the 
writer  gives  the  following  account  of  a  very  old  painting  upon  the 
wall,  and  of  the  poem  which  served  as  its  motto.  The  painting  is 
no  longer  visible,  having  been  effaced  in  repairing  the  church. 

•"  Against  the  west  wall  of  the  nave,  on  the  south  side  of  the 
arch,  was  painted  the  martyrdom  of  Thomas-a-Becket,  while  kneel 
ing  at  the  altar  of  St.  Benedict  in  Canterbury  cathedral ;  below  this 
was  the  figure  of  an  angel,  probably  St.  Michael,  supporting  a  long 
scroll,  upon  which  were  seven  stanzas  in  old  English,  being  an  alle- 
&ory  of  mortality : — 

"  Erthe  oute  of  Erthe  ys  wondurly  wroght 
Erth  hath  gotyn  uppon  erth  a  dygnyte  of  noght 
Erth  ypon  erth  hath  sett  all  hys  thowht 
How  erth  apon  erth  may  be  hey  browght 

"  Erth  apon  erth  wold  be  a  kyng 
But  how  that  erth  gott  to  erth  he  thyngkys  nothyng 
When  erth  byddys  erth  hys  rentys  whom  bryng 
Then  schall  erth  apon  erth  have  a  hard  ptyng 

"  Erth  apon  erth  wynnys  castellys  and  towrys 
Then  seth  erth  unto  erth  thys  ys  all  owns 
When  erth  apon  erth  hath  bylde  hys  bowrys 
Then  schall  erth  for  erth  suffur  many  hard  schowrys 

"  Erth  goth  apon  erth  as  man  apon  mowld 
Lyke  as  erth  apon  erth  never  goo  schold 
Erth  goth  apon  erth  as  gelsteryng  gold 
And  yet  schall  erth  unto  erth  rather  than  he  wold 


64  PEBE  LA  CHAISE. 

of  foliage  around,  and  pointing  upward  to  the  gleam  of 
the  departed  sun,  that  still  lingered  in  the  sky,  and 
mingled  with  the  soft  starlight  of  a  summer  evening. 


"  Why  that  orth  loveth  erth  wontlur  me  thynke 
Or  why  that  erth  wold  for  erth  other  swett  or  swynke 
When  erth  apon  erth  ys  broght  wt.  yn  the  brynke 
Then  schall  erth  apon  erth  have  a  fowll  stynke 

"  Lo  erth  on  erth  consedur  thow  may 
How  erth  corayth  to  erth  nakyd  all  way 
\Vhy  schall  erth  apon  erth  goo  stowte  or  gay 
Seth  erth  owt  of  erth  schall  passe  yn  poor  aray 

"  I  counsill  erth  apon  erth  that  ys  wondurly  wrogt 
The  whyl  yt.  erth  ys  apon  erth  to  torne  hys  thowht 
And  pray  to  god  upon  erth  yt.  all  erth  wroght 
That  all  crystyn  soullys  to  ye.  blys  may  be  broght 

"  Beneath  were  two  men,  holding  a  scroll  over  a  body  wrapped  fe 
2.  winding  sheet,  and  covered  with  some  emblems  of  mortality,"  «tct 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  LOIRE. 

Jc  nc  consols  qu'uue  maniere  de  voyager  plus  agruable  que  (Taller  a  cheval ; 
r'cst  d'allcr  ii  pied.  On  part  a  son  moment,  on  s'arrete  a  sa  volonte,  on  fait  tani 
et  si  peu  d'exercisc  qu'on  veut. 

Quand  on  ne  veut  qu'arriver,  on  pent  courir  en  chaise  de  poste  ;  mais  quandon 
Tent  voyager,  il  faut  aller  a  pied. 

Ii'oi'SSEAU. 

ZN  the  melancholy  month  of  October,  I  made  a  foot 
excursion  along  the  banks  of  the  Loire,  from  Orleans 
to  Tours.  This  luxuriant  region  is  justly  called  the  gar 
den  of  France.  From  Orleans  to  Blois,  the  whole  yalley 
of  the  Loire  is  one  continued  vineyard.  The  bright  green 
foliage  of  the  vine  spreads,  like  the  undulations  of  the 
sea,  over  all  the  landscape,  with  here  and  there  a  silver 
flash  of  the  river,  a  sequestered  hamlet,  or  the  towers  of 
an  old  chateau,  to  enliven  and  variegate  the  scene. 

The  vintage  had  already  commenced.  The  peasantry 
were  busy  in  the  fields, — the  song  that  cheered  their  labor 
was  on  the  breeze,  and  the  heavy  wagon  tottered  by, 
laden  with  the  clusters  of  the  vine.  Everything  around 
me  wore  that  happy  look  which  makes  the  heart  glad. 
In  the  morning  I  arose  with  the  lark  ;  and  at  night  I 
slept  where  sunset  overtook  me.  The  healthy  exercise  of 
foot-travelling,  the  pure,  bracing  a:r  of  autumn,  and  the 
cheerful  aspect  of  the  whole  landscape  about  me,  iravc 
fresh  elasticity  to  a  mind  not  overburdened  with  care, 
and  made  me  forget  not  only  the  fatigue  of  walking,  but 
also  the  consciousness  of  being  alone. 

My  first  day's  journey  brought  me  at  evening  to  a  vil- 
65* 


66  TEE  VALLEY  OF  THE  LOIRE. 

lage,  whose  name  I  have  forgotten,  situated  about  eight 
leagues  from  Orleans.  It  is  a  small,  obscure  hamlet,  not 
mentioned  in  the  guide-book,  and  stands  upon  the  pre 
cipitous  banks  of  a  deep  ravine,  through  which  a  noisy 
_£  leaps  down  to  turn  the  ponderous  wheel  of  a 
inatch-rooied  nmL  TIio  village  inn  stands  upon  the 
';  tne  village  iiseli  ic  not  visible  to  the  trav 
eller  as  he  passes,  it  is  completely  hidden  in  the  lap  oi  c, 
wooded  valley,  and  so  embowered  in  trees  tiiat  not  a  roof  nor 
a  chimney  peeps  out  to  betray  its  hiding-place.  It  is  ilko 
the  nest  of  a  ground-swallow,  which  the  passing  footstep 
almost  treads  upon,  and  yet  it  is  not  seen.  I  passed  by 
without  suspecting  that  a  village  was  near  ;  and  the  little 
inn  had  a  look  so  uninviting  that  I  did  not  even  enter  it. 

After  proceeding  a  mile  or  two  farther,  I  perceived, 
upon  my  left,  a  village  spire  rising  over  the  vineyards. 
Towards  this  I  directed  my  footsteps ;  but  it  seemed  to 
recede  as  I  advanced,  and  at  last  quite  disappeared.  It 
was  evidently  many  miles  distant ;  and  as  the  path  I  fol 
lowed  descended  from  the  highway,  it  had  gradually 
sunk  beneath  a  swell  of  the  vine-clad  landscape.  I  now 
found  myself  in  the  midst  of  an  extensive  vineyard.  It 
was  just  sunset  ;  and  the  last  golden  rays  lingered  on  the 
rich  and  mellow  scenery  around  me.  The  peasantry  were 
still  busy  at  their  task  ;  and  the  occasional  bark  of  a  dog, 
and  the  distant  sound  of  an  evening  bell,  gave  fresh  ro 
mance  to  the  scene.  The  reality  of  many  a  day-dream  of 
childhood,  of  many  a  poetic  revery  of  youth,  was  before 
me.  I  stood  at  sunset  amid  the  luxuriant  vineyards  of 
France  ! 

The  first  person  I  met  was  a  poor  old  woman,  a  little 
bowed  down  with  age,  gathering  grapes  into  a  largo 
basket.  She  was  dressed  like  the  poorest  class  of  peas- 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  LOIRE.  67 

antry,  and  pursued  her  solitary  task  alone,  heedless  of  the 
cheerful  gossip  and  the  merry  laugh  which  came  from  a 
band  of  more  youthful  vintagers  at  a  short  distance  from 
her.  She  was  so  intently  engaged  in  her  work,  that  she 
did  not  perceive  my  approach  until  I  bade  her  good  even 
ing.  On  hearing  my  voice,  she  looked  up  from  her  labor, 
and  returned  the  salutation  ;  and,  on  my  asking  her  if 
there  were  a  tavern  or  a  farm-house  in  the  neighborhood 
where  I  could  pass  the  night,  she  showed  me  the  pathway 
through  the  vineyard  that  led  to  the  village,  and  then 
added,  with  a  look  of  curiosity, — 

"You  must  be  a  stranger,  sir,  in  these  parts." 

"  Yes  ;  my  home  is  very  far  from  here." 

"  How  far  ?  " 

"  More  than  a  thousand  leagues." 

The  old  woman  looked  incredulous. 

"I  came  from,  a  distant  land  beyond  .the  sea." 

"  More  than  a  thousand  leagues  !  "  at  length  repeated 
she  ;  "  and  why  have  you  come  so  far  from  home  ?" 

"  To  travel ; — to  see  how  you  live  in  this  country." 

"  Have  you  no  relations  in  your  own  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  I  have  both  brothers  and  sisters,  a  father 
and—" 

"  And  a  mother  ?  " 

"  Thank  Heaven,  I  have." 

"  And  did  you  leave  her  ?  " 

Here  the  old  woman  gave  me  a  piercing  look  of  reproof ; 
shook  her  head  mournfully,  and,  with  a  deep  sigh,  as  if 
some  painful  recollection  had  been  awakened  in  her  bosom, 
turned  again  to  her  solitary  task.  I  felt  rebuked ;  for 
there  is  something  almost  prophetic  in  the  admonitions 
of  the  old.  The  eye  of  age  looks  meekly  into  my  heart  ! 
the  voice  of  age  echoes  mournfully  through  it  !  the 


68  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  LOIRE. 

hoary  head  and  palsied  hand  of  age  plead  irresistibly  for 
its  sympathies  !  I  venerate  old  age  ;  and  I  love  not  the 
man  who  can  look  without  emotion  upon  the  sundown  of 
life,  when  the  dusk  of  evening  begins  to  gather  over  the 
watery  eye,  and  the  shadows  of  twilight  grow  broader 
and  deeper  upon  the  understanding  ! 

I  pursued  the  pathway  which  led  towards  the  village, 
and  the  next  person  I  encountered  was  an  old  man, 
stretched  lazily  beneath  the  vines  upon  a  little  strip  of 
turf,  at  a  point  where  four  paths  met,  forming  a  crossway 
in  the  vineyard.  He  was  clad  in  a  coarse  garb  of  gray, 
with  a  pair  of  long  gaiters  or  spatter-dashes.  Beside  him 
lay  a  blue  cloth-cap,  a  staff,  and  an  old  weather-beaten 
knapsack.  I  saw  at  once  that  he  was  a  foot-traveller  like 
myself,  and  therefore,  without  more  ado,  entered  into 
conversation  with  him.  From  his  language,  and  the 
peculiar  manner  in  which  he  now  and  then  wiped  his 
upper  lip  with  the  back  of  his  hand,  as  if  in  search  of 
the  mustache  which  was  no  longer  there,  I  judged  that 
he  had  been  a  soldier.  In  this  opinion  I  was  not  mis 
taken.  He  had  served  under  Napoleon,  and  had  followed 
the  imperial  eagle  across  the  Alps,  and  the  Pyrenees,  and 
the  burning  sands  of  Egypt.  Like  every  vieille  moustache, 
he  spake  with  enthusiasm  of  the  Little  Corporal,  and 
cursed  the  English,  the  Germans,  the  Spanish,  and 
every  other  race  on  earth,  except  the  great  nation, — his 
own. 

"I  like,"  said  he,  "after  a  long  day's  march,  to  lie 
down  in  this  way  upon  the  grass,  and  enjoy  the  cool  of 
the  evening.  It  reminds  me  of  the  bivouacs  of  other 
days,  and  of  old  friends  who  are  now  up  there." 

Here  he  pointed  with  his  finger  to  the  sky. 

"  They  have  reached  the  last  etape  before  me,  in  the 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  LOIRE.  69 

long  march.  But  I  shall  go  soon.  We  shall  all  meet 
again  at  the  last  roll-call.  A  soldier  has  a  heart,  and 
can  feel  like  other  men.  Sacre  nom  de  —  -  !  There's 
a  tear  ! " 

He  wiped  it  away  with  his  sleeve. 

Here  our  colloquy  was  interrupted  by  the  approach  of 
a  group  of  vintagers,  who  were  returning  homeward  from 
their  labor.  To  this  party  I  joined  myself,  and  invited 
the  old  soldier  to  do  the  same  ;  but  he  shook  his  head. 

"  I  thank  you  ;  my  pathway  lies  in  a  different  direc 
tion." 

"  But  there  is  no  other  village  near,  and  the  sun  has 
already  set." 

"  No  matter,  I  am  used  to  sleeping  on  the  ground. 
Good  night." 

I  left  the  old  man  to  his  meditations,  and  walked  on 
in  company  with  the  vintagers.  Following  a  well-trod 
den  pathway  through  the  vineyards,  we  soon  descended 
the  valley's  slope,  and  I  suddenly  found  myself  in  the 
bosom  of  one  of  those  little  hamlets  from  which  the  la 
borer  rises  to  his  toil  as  the  skylark  to  his  song,  My 
companions  wished  me  a  good  night,  as  each  entered  his 
own  thatch-roofed  cottage,  and  a  little  girl  led  me  out  to 
the  very  inn  which  an  hour  or  two  before  I  had  disdained 
to  enter. 

When  I  awoke  in  the  morning,  a  brilliant  autumnal  sun 
was  shining  in  at  my  window.  The  merry  song  of  birds 
mingled  sweetly  with  the  sound  of  rustling  leaves  and 
the  gurgle  of  the  brook.  The  vintagers  were  going  forth 
to  their  toil  ;  the  wine-press  was  busy  in  the  shade,  and 
the  clatter  of  the  mill  kept  time  to  the  miller's  song.  I 
loitered  about  the  village  with  a  feeling  of  calm  delight. 
I  was  unwilling  to  leave  the  seclusion  of  this  sequestered 


70  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  LOIRE. 

hamlet ;  but  at  length,  \vith  reluctant  step,  I  took  the 
cross-road  through  the  vineyard,  and  in  a  moment  the 
little  village  had  sunk  again,  as  if  by  enchantment,  into 
the  bosom  of  the  earth.  , 

I  breakfasted  at  the  town  of  Mer ;  and,  leaving  the 
high-road  to  Blois  on  the  right,  passed  down  to  the  banks 
of  the  Loire,  through  a  long,  broad  avenue  of  poplars 
and  sycamores.  I  crossed  the  river  in  a  boat,  and  in  the 
after  part  of  the  day  I  found  myself  before  the  high  and 
massive  walls  of  the  chateau  of  Chambord.  This  chateau 
is  one  of  the  finest  specimens  of  the  ancient  Gothic  castle 
to  be  found  in  Europe.  The  little  river  Cosson  fills  its 
deep  and  ample  moat,  and  above  it  the  huge  towers  and 
heavy  battlements  rise  in  stern  and  solemn  grandeur, 
moss-grown  with  age,  and  blackened  by  the  storms  of 
three  centuries.  Within,  all  is  mournful  and  deserted. 
The  grass  has  overgrown  the  pavement  of  the  courtyard, 
and  the  rude  sculpture  upon  the  walls  is  broken  and  de 
faced.  From  the  courtyard  I  entered  the  central  tower, 
and,  ascending  the  principal  staircase,  went  out  upon  the 
battlements.  I  seemed  to  have  stepped  back  into  the 
precincts  of  the  feudal  ages ;  and,  as  I  passed  along 
through  echoing  corridors,  and  vast,  deserted  halls, 
stripped  of  their  furni:ure,  and  mouldering  silently  away, 
the  distant  past  came  back  upon  me  ;  and  the  times  when 
the  clang  of  arms,  and  the  tramp  of  mail-clad  men,  and 
the  sounds  of  music  and  revelry  and  wassail,  echoed  along 
those  high-vaulted  and  solitary  chambers  ! 

My  third  day's  journey  brought  me  to  the  ancient  city 
of  Blois,  the  chief  town  of  the  department  of  Loire-et- 
Cher.  This  city  is  celebrated  for  the  purity  with  which 
even  the  lower  classes  of  inhabitants  speak  their  native 
tongue.  It  rises  precipitously  from  the  northern  bank  of 


TEE  VALLEY  Of  THE  LOIRE.  71 

the  Loire ;  and  many  of  its  streets  are  so  steep  as  to  bo 
almost  impassable  for  carriages.  On  the  brow  of  the  hill, 
overlooking  the  roofs  of  the  city,  and  commanding  a  fine 
view  of  the  Loire  and  its  noble  bridge,  and  the  surround 
ing  country,  sprinkled  with  cottages  and  country-seats, 
runs  an  ample  terrace,  planted  with  trees,  and  laid  out 
as  a  public  walk.  The  view  from  this  terrace  is  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  in  France.  But  what  most  strikes 
the  eye  of  the  traveller  at  Blois  is  an  old,  though  still  un 
finished,  chateau.  Its  huge  parapets  of  hewn  stone  stand 
upon  either  side  of  the  street ;  but  they  have  walled  up 
the  wide  gateway,  from  which  the  colossal  drawbridge 
was  to  have  sprung  high  in  air,  connecting  together  the 
main  towers  of  the  chateau,  and  the  two  hills  upon 
whose  slope  its  foundations  stand.  The  aspect  of  this 
va<t  pile  is  gloomy  and  desolate.  It  seems  as  if  the  strong 
hand  of  the  builder  had  been  arrested  in  the  midst  of  his 
task  by  the  stronger  hand  of  death ;  and  the  unfinished 
fabric  stands  a  lasting  monument  both  of  the  power 
and  weakness  of  man, — of  his  vast  desires,  his  sanguine 
hopes,  his  ambitious  purposes, — and  of  the  unlooked-for 
conclusion,  where  all  these  desires,  and  hopes,  and  pur 
poses  are  so  often  arrested.  There  is  also  at  Blois  an 
other  ancient  chateau,  to  which  some  historic  interest  is 
attached,  as  being  the  scene  of  the  massacre  of  the  Duka 
of  Guise. 

On  the  following  day,  I  left  Blois  for  Amboise  ;  and, 
after  walking  several  leagues  along  the  dusty  highway, 
crossed  the  river  in  a  boat  to  the  little  village  of  Moines, 
which  lies  amid  luxuriant  vineyards  upon  the  southern 
bank  of  the  Loire.  From  Moines  to  Amboise  the  road  is 
truly  delightful.  The  rich  lowland  scenery,  by  the  mar 
gin  of  the  river,  is  verdant  even  in  October ;  and  occa- 


72  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  LOIRE. 

eionally  the  landscape  is  diversified  with  the  picturesque 
cottages  of  the  vintagers,,  cut  in  the  rock  along  the  road 
side,  and  overhung  by  the  thick  foliage  of  the  vines  above 
them. 

At  Amboise  I  took  a  cross-road,  which  led  me  to  the 
romantic  borders  of  the  Cher  and  the  chateau  of  Chernan- 
ceau.  This  beautiful  chateau,  as  well  as  that  of  Cham- 
bor;l,  was  built  by  the  gay  and  munificent  Francis  I. 
One  is  a  specimen  of  strong  and  massive  architecture, — a 
dwelling  for  a  warrior  ;  but  the  other  is  of  a  lighter  and 
more  graceful  construction,  and  was  destined  for  those 
soft  languishments  of  passion  with  which  the  fascinating 
Diane  de  Poitiers  had  filled  the  bosom  of  that  voluptuous 
monarch. 

The  chateau  of  Chernanceau  is  built  upon  arches  across 
the  river  Cher,  whose  waters  are  made  to  supply  the  deep 
moat  at  each  extremity.  There  is  a  spacious  courtyard  in 
front,  from  which  a  drawbridge  conducts  to  the  outer  hall 
of  the  castle.  There  the  armor  of  Francis  I.  still  hangs 
upon  the  wall, — his  shield,  and  helm,  and  lance, — as  if 
the  chivalrous  prince  had  just  exchanged  them  for  the 
silken  robes  of  the  drawing-room.  From  this  hall  a  door 
opens  into  a  long  gallery,  extending  the  whole  length  of 
the  building  across  the  Cher.  The  walls  of  the  gallery 
are  hung  with  the  faded  portraits  of  the  long  line  of  the 
descendants  of  Hugh  Capet ;  and  the  windows,  looking 
up  and  down  the  stream,  command  a  fine  reach  of  pleas 
ant  river  scenery.  This  is  said  to  be  the  only  chateau  in 
France  in  which  the  ancient  furniture  of  its  original  age 
is  preserved.  In  one  part  of  the  building,  you  are  shown 
the  bed-chamber  of  Diane  de  Poitiers,  with  its  antique 
chairs  covered  with  faded  damask  and  embroidery,  her 
bed,  and  a  portrait  of  the  royal  favorite  hanging  over  tho 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  LOIRE.  73 

mantelpiece.  In  another  you  see  the  apartment  of  the 
infamous  Catherine  de'  Medici ;  a  venerable  arm-cLair 
and  an  autograph  letter  of  Henry  IV.  ;  and  in  an 
old  laboratory,  among  broken  crucibles,  and  necklets 
retorts,  and  drums,  and  trumpets,  and  skins  of  wild 
beasts,  and  other  ancient  lumber,  of  various  kinds,  are  to 
be  seen  the  bed-posts  of  Francis  I.  Doubtless  the  naked 
walls  and  the  vast  solitary  chambers  of  an  old  and  desolate 
chateau  inspire  a  feeling  of  greater  solemnity  and  awe ; 
but  when  the  antique  furniture  of  the  olden  time  remains, 
— the  faded  tapestry  on  the  walls,  and  the  arm-chair  by 
the  fireside, — the  effect  upon  the  mind  is  more  magical 
and  delightful.  The  old  inhabitants  of  the  place,  long 
gathered  to  their  fathers,  though  living  still  in  history, 
seem  to  have  left  their  halls  for  the  chase  or  the  tourna 
ment  ;  and  as  the  heavy  door  swings  upon  its  reluctant 
hinge,  one  almost  expects  to  see  the  gallant  princes  and 
courtly  dames  enter  those  halls  again,  and  sweep  in  stately 
procession  along  the  silent  corridors. 

Rapt  in  such  fancies  as  these,  and  gazing  on  the  beau 
ties  of  this  noble  edifice,  and  the  soft  scenery  around  it,  I 
lingered,  unwilling  to  depart,  till  the  rays  of  the  setting 
sun,  streaming  through  the  dusty  windows,  admonished 
me  that  the  day  was  drawing  rapidly  to  a  close.  I  sallied 
forth  from  the  southern  gate  of  the  chateau,  and  crossing 
the  broken  drawbridge,  pursued  a  pathway  along  the  bank 
of  the  river,  still  gazing  back  upon  those  towering  walls, 
now  bathed  in  the  rich  glow  of  sunset,  till  a  turn  in  the 
road  and  a  clump  of  woodland  at  length  shut  them  out 
from  my  sight. 

A  short  time  after  candle-lighting,  I  reached  the  little 
tavern  of  the  Boule  d'Or,  a  few  leagues  from  Tours,  where 
1  passed  the  night.  The  following  morning  was  lowering 


74  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  LOIRE. 

and  sad.  A  veil  of  mist  hung  over  the  landscape,  and 
ever  and  anon  a  heavy  shower  burst  from  the  overbur 
dened  clouds,  that  were  driving  by  before  a  high  and 
piercing  wind.  This  unpropitious  state  of  the  weather 
detained  me  until  noon,  when  a  cabriolet  for  Tours  drove 
up  ;  and,  taking  a  seat  within  it,  I  left  the  hostess  of  the 
Boule  d'Or  in  the  middle  of  a  long  story  about  a  rich 
countess,  who  always  alighted  there  when  she  passed 
that  way.  We  drove  leisurely  along  through  a  beautiful 
country,  till  at  length  we  came  to  the  brow  of  a  steep 
hill,  which  commands  a  fine  view  of  the  city  of  Tours 
and  its  delightful  environs.  But  the  scene  was  shrouded 
by  the  heavy  drifting  mist,  through  which  I  could  trace 
but  indistinctly  the  graceful  sweep  of  the  Loire,  and  the 
spires  and  roofs  of  the  city  far  below  me. 

The  city  of  Tours  and  the  delicious  plain  in  which  it 
lies  have  been  too  often  described  by  other  travellers  to 
render  a  new  description,  from  so  listless  a  pen  as  mine, 
either  necessary  or  desirable.  After  a  sojourn  of  two 
cloudy  and  melancholy  days,  I  set  out  on  my  return  to 
Paris,  by  the  way  of  Vendome  and  Chartres.  I  stopped 
a  few  hours  at  the  former  place,  to  examine  the  ruins  of 
a  chateau  built  by  Jeanne  d'Albret,  mother  of  Henry  the 
Fourth.  It  stands  upon  the  summit  of  a  high  and  pre 
cipitous  hill,  and  almost  overhangs  the  town  beneath. 
The  French  Eevolution  has  completed  the  ruin  that  time 
had  already  begun  ;  and  nothing  now  remains  but  a  bro 
ken  and  crumbling  bastion,  and  here  and  there  a  solitary 
tower  dropping  slowly  to  decay.  In  one  of  these  is  the 
grave  of  Jeanne  d'Albret.  A  marble  entablature  in  the 
wall  above  contains  the  inscription,  which  is  nearly  ef 
faced,  though  enough  still  remains  to  tell  the  curious 
traveller  that  there  lies  buried  the  mother  of  the  "  Boa 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  LOIRE.  75 

Henri."  To  this  is  added  a  prayer  that  the  repose  of  the 
dead  may  be  respected, — a  prayer  which  has  been  shame 
fully  disregarded. 

Here  ended  my  foot  excursion.  The  object  of  my 
journey  was  accomplished  ;  and,  delighted  with  this  short 
ramble  through  the  valley  of  the  Loire,  I  took  my  seat  in 
the  diligence  for  Paris,  and  on  the  following  day  was 
again  swallowed  up  in  the  crowds  of  the  metropolis,  like 
a  drop  in  the  bosom  of  the  sea. 


THE  TROUVERES. 

Quant  recommence  et  revient  biaux  estez, 

Quo  foille  et  flor  resjilendit  par  boschage, 
Quo  li  froix  tanz  dc  1'hyver  est  passez, 
£t  cil  oisel  chantcut  eii  lor  langage, 
Lore  chanterai 
Et  envoisiez  serai 
De  cuer  verai. 

JAQUES  DE  CHISON. 

rf^HE  literature  of  France  is  peculiarly  rich  in  poetry 
!  of  the  olden  time.  We  can  trace  up  the  stream  of 
song  until  it  is  lost  in  the  deepening  shadows  of  the  Mid 
dle  Ages.  Even  there  it  is  not  a  shallow  tinkling  rill ; 
but  it  comes  like  a  mountain  stream,  rushing  and  sound 
ing  onward  through  the  enchanted  regions  of  romance, 
and  mingles  its  yoice  with  the  tramp  of  steeds  and  the 
brazen  sound  of  arms. 

The  glorious  reign  of  Charlemagne,*  at  the  close  of 

*  The  following  amusing  description  of  this  Restorer  of  Letters, 
as  his  biographers  call  him,  is  taken  from  the  fabulous  Chronicle 
of  John  Turpin,  Chap.  xx. 

' '  The  Emperor  was  of  a  ruddy  complexion,  with  brown  hair  ;  of 
a  well-made,  handsome  form,  but  a  stern  visage.  His  height  was 
about  eight  of  his  own  feet,  which  were  very  long.  He  was  of  a 
strong,  robust  make  ;  his  legs  and  thighs  very  stout,  and  his  sinews 
firm.  His  face  was  thirteen  inches  long  ;  his  beard  a  palm  ;  his 
nose  half  a  palm  ;  his  forehead  a  foot  over.  His  lion-like  eyes 
flashed  fire  like  carbuncles  ;  his  eyebrows  were  half  a  palm  over. 
When  he  was  angry,  it  was  a  terror  to  look  upon  him.  He  required 
eight  spans  for  his  girdle  beside  what  hung  loose.  He  ate  spar 
76 


THE   TROU VERES.  77 

the  eighth  and  the  commencement  of  the  ninth  century, 
seems  to  have  breathed  a  spirit  of  learning  as  well  as  of 
chivalry  throughout  all  France.  The  monarch  established 
schools  and  academies  in  different  parts  of  his  realm,  and 
took  delight  in  the  society  and  conversation  of  learned 
men.  It  is  amusing  to  see  with  what  evident  self-satis 
faction  some  of  the  magi  whom  he  gathered  around  him 
speak  of  their  exertions  in  widening  the  sphere  of  human 
knowledge,  and  pouring  in  light  upon  the  darkness  of 
their  age.  "  For  some,"  says  Alcuin,  the  director  of  the 
school  of  St.  Martin  de  Tours,  "I  cause  the  honey  of  the 
Holy  Scriptures  to  flow  ;  I  intoxicate  others  with  the  old 
wine  of  ancient  history ;  these  I  nourish  with  the  fruits 
of  grammar,  gathered  by  my  own  hands;  and  those  I 
enlighten  by  pointing  out  to  them  the  stars,  like  lamps 
attached  by  the  vaulted  ceiling  of  a  great  j/Llace  !" 

Besides  this  classic  erudition  of  the  schools,  the  age  had 
also  its  popular  literature.  Those  who  were  untaught  in 
scholastic  wisdom  were  learned  in  traditionary  lore ;  for 
they  had  their  "ballads,  in  which  were  (described  the  valor 
and  achievements  of  the  early  kings  of  the  Franks.  These 
ballads,  of  which  a  collection  was  made  by  order  of  Char 
lemagne,  animated  the  rude  soldier  as  iic  rushed  to  bat  t  lc, 
and  were  sung  in  the  midnight  bivjuacs  of  the  camp. 
"  Perhaps  it  is  not  too  much  to  say,"  observes  the  lite- 

ingly  of  bread  ;  but  a  whole  quarter  of  lamb,  two  fowls,  a  goose,  or 
»  large  portion  of  pork  ,  a  peacock,  a  crane,  or  a  whole  hare.  II <; 
drank  moderately  of  wine  and  water.  He  was  so  strong  that  he 
could  at  a  single  blow  cleave  asunder  an  armed  soldier  on  horse- 
I'.-K  k.  from  the  head  to  the  waist,  and  the  horse  likewise.  Ilo  easily 
vaulted  over  four  horses  harnessed  together  ;  and  could  raise  an 
armed  man  from  the  ground  to  his  head,  as  ne  stood  erect  upon  hi» 
hand. " 


7S  TEE   TBOUVERES. 

rary  historian  Schlegel,  "that  we  have  still  in  our  pos» 
session,  if  not  the  original  language  and  form,  at  least 
the  substance,  of  many  of  those  ancient  poems  which 
were  collected  by  the  orders  of  that  prince  ; — I  refer  to 
the  Nibelungenlied,  and  the  collection  which  goes  by  the 
name  of  the  Heldenbuch." 

When  at  length  the  old  Tudesque  language,  which  was 
the  court  language  of  Charlemagne,  had  given  place  to 
the  Langue  d'Oil,  the  northern  dialect  of  the  French  Ro- 
mance,  these  ancient  ballads  passed  from  the  memories  of 
the  descendants  of  the  Franks,  and  were  succeeded  by  the 
romances  of  Charlemagne  and  his  Twelve  Peers, — of  Row 
land  and  Olivir,  and  the  other  paladins  who  died  at  Ron- 
cesvalles.  Robert  Wace,  a  Norman  Trouvere  of  the 
twelfth  century,  says  in  one  of  his  poems,  that  a  min 
strel  named  Talliefer,  mounted  on  a  swift  horse,  went  in 
front  of  the  Norman  army  at  the  battle  of  Hastings, 
singing  these  ancient  poems. 

These  Cliansons  de  Geste,  or  old  historic  romances  of 
France,  are  epic  in  their  character,  though,  without  doubt, 
they  were  written  to  be  chanted  to  the  sound  of  an  instru 
ment.  To  what  period  many  of  them  belong,  in  their 
present  form,  has  never  yet  been  fully  determined ;  and 
should  it  finally  be  proved  by  philological  research  that 
they  can  claim  no  higher  antiquity  than  the  twelfth  or 
thirteenth  century,  still  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  in 
their  original  form  many  of  them  reached  far  back  into 
the  ninth  or  tenth.  The  long  prevalent  theory,  that  the 
romances  of  the  Twelve  Peers  of  France  all  originated  in 
the  fabulous  chronicle  of  Charlemagne  and  Rowland,  writ 
ten  by  the  Archbishop  Turpin  in  the  twelfth  century,  if 
not  as  yet  generally  exploded,  is  nevertheless  fast  losing 
ground. 


THE   TROUVERES.  79 

To  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries  also  belong 
most  of  the  Fabliaux,  or  metrical  tales  of  the  Trouvm-s. 
Many  of  these  compositions  are  remarkable  for  the  inven 
tive  talent  they  display,  but  as  poems  they  have,  generally 
speaking,  little  merit,  and  at  times  exhibit  such  a  want 
of  refinement,  such  open  and  gross  obscenity,  as  to  be 
'lighly  offensive. 

It  is  a  remarkable  circumstance  in  the  literary  history 
of  France,  that,  while  her  antiquarians  and  scholars  have 
devoted  themselves  to  collecting  and  illustrating  the  poet 
ry  of  the  Troubadours,  the  early  lyric  poets  of  the  South, 
that  of  the  Trouveres,  or  Troubadours  of  the  North,  has 
been  almost  entirely  neglected.  By  a  singular  fatality, 
too,  what  little  time  and  attention  have  hitherto  been  be 
stowed  upon  the  fathers  of  French  poetry  have  been  so 
directed  as  to  save  from  oblivion  little  of  the  most  valua 
ble  portions  of  their  writings  ;  while  the  more  tedious  and 
worthless  parts  have  been  brought  forth  to  the  public  eye, 
as  if  to  deaden  curiosity,  and  put  an  end  to  further  re 
search.  The  ancient  historic  romances  of  the  land  have, 
for  the  most  part,  been  left  to  slumber  unnoticed  ;  while 
the  lewd  and  tiresome  Fabliaux  have  been  ushered  into 
the  world  as  fair  specimens  of  the  ancient  poetry  of 
France.  This  has  created  unjust  prejudices  in  the  minds 
of  many  against  the  literature  of  the  olden  time,  and  has 
led  them  to  regard  it  as  nothing  more  than  a  confused 
mass  of  "coarse  and  vulgar  fictions,  adapted  to  a  rude  and 
inelegant  state  of  society. 

Of  late,  however,  a  more  discerning  judgment  has  been 
brought  to  the  difficult  task  of  ancient  research;  and, 
in  consequence  of  this,  the  long-established  prejudices 
against  the  crumbling  monuments  of  the  national  liter 
ature  of  France  during  the  Middle  Ages  is  fast  disappear- 


80  THE   TROUVERES. 

ing.  Several  learned  men  are  engaged  in  rescuing  from 
oblivion  the  ancient  poetic  romances  of  Charlemagne  and 
the  Twelve  Peers  of  France,  and  their  labors  seem  des 
tined  to  throw  new  light,  not  only  upon  the  state  of  liter 
ature,  but  upon  the  state  of  society,  during  the  twelfth 
and  thirteenth  centuries. 

Among  the  voluminous  remains  of  Troubadour  litera 
ture,  little  else  has  yet  been  discovered  than  poems  of  a 
lyric  character.  The  lyre  of  the  Troubadour  seems  to 
have  responded  to  the  impulse  of  momentary  feelings 
only, — to  the  touch  of  local  and  transitory  circumstances. 
His  song  was  a  sudden  burst  of  excited  feeling  ; — it  ceased 
when  the  passion  was  subdued,  or  rather  -when  its  first 
feverish  excitement  passed  away  ;  and  as  the  liveliest  feel 
ings  are  the  most  transitory,  the  songs  which  embodied 
them  are  short,  but  full  of  spirit  and  energy.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  great  mass  of  the  poetry  of  the  Trou- 
veres  is  of  a  narrative  or  epic  character.  The  genius  of 
the  North  seems  always  to  have  delighted  in  romantic 
fiction ;  and  whether  we  attribute  the  origin  of  modern 
romance  to  the  Arabians  or  to  the  Scandinavians,  this  at 
least  is  certain  that  there  existed  marvellous  tales  in  the 
Northern  languages,  and  from  these,  in  part  at  least,  the 
Trouveres  imbibed  the  spirit  of  narrative  poetry.  There 
are  no  traces  of  lyric  compositions  among  their  writings, 
till  about  the  commencement  of  the  thirteenth  century  ; 
and  it  seems  probable  that  the  spirit  of  song-writing  was 
imbibed  from  the  Troubadors  of  the  South. 

Unfortunately,  the  neglect  which  has  so  long  attended 
the  old  historic  and  heroic  romances  of  the  North  of 
France  has  also  befallen  in  some  degree  its  early  lyric 
poetry.  Little  has  yet  been  done  to  discover  and  bring 
forth  its  riches ;  and  doubtless  many  a  sweet  little  ballad 


THE   TROUVERES.  81 

and  melancholy  complaint  lies  buried  in  the  dust  of  the 
thirteenth  century.  It  is  not,  however,  my  object,  in 
this  paper,  to  give  an  historical  sketch  of  this  ancient  and 
almost  forgotten  poetry,  but  simply  to  bring  forward  a 
few  specimens  which  shall  exhibit  its  most  striking  and 
obvious  characteristics. 

In  these  examples  it  would  be  in  vain  to  look  for  high- 
wrought  expression  suited  to  the  prevailing  taste  of  the 
present  day.  Their  most  striking  peculiarity,  and  per 
haps  their  greatest  merit,  consists  in  the  simple  and  direct 
expression  of  feeling  which  they  contain.  This  feeling, 
too,  is  one  which  breathes  the  languor  of  that  submissive 
homage  which  was  paid  to  beauty  in  the  days  of  chivalry ; 
and  I  am  aware,  that,  in  this  age  of  masculine  and 
matter-of-fact  thinking,  the  love-conceits  of  a  more  poetic 
state  of  society  are  generally  looked  upon  as  extremely 
trivial  and  puerile.  Nevertheless  I  shall  venture  to 
present  one  or  two  of  these  simple  ballads,  which,  by 
recalling  the  distant  age  wherein  they  were  composed,  may 
peradventurc  please  by  the  power  of  contrast. 

I  have  just  remarked  that  one  of  the  greatest  beauties 
of  these  ancient  ditties  is  naivete  of  thought  and  sim 
plicity  of  expression.  These  I  shall  endeavor  to  preserve  as 
far  as  possible  in  the  translation,  though  I  am  fully  con 
scious  how  much  the  sparkling  beauty  of  an  original 
loses  in  being  filtered  through  the  idioms  of  a  foreign 
language. 

The  favorite  theme  of  the  ancient  lyric  poets  of  ihe 
North  of  France  is  I  he  \v;i\\vard  passion  of  love.  They 
all  delight  to  sing  "  les  douces  dolors  et  limal  pluixttnt  </<• 
fine  amor."  AVil  li  such  feelings  the  beauties  of  the  open 
ing  spring  an-  naturally  associated.  Almost  every  love- 
ditty  of  the  old  poets  commences  with  some  such  ex- 
6 


82  THE   TROUVERES. 

ordium  as  this  : — "When  the  snows  of  winter  have  passed 
away,  when  the  soft  and  gentle  spring  returns,  and  the 
flower  and  leaf  shoot  in  the  groves,  and  the  little  birds 
warble  to  their  mates  in  their  OAvn  sweet  language, — 
then  will  I  sing  my  lady-love." 

Another  favorite  introduction  to  these  little  rhapsodies 
of  romantic  passion  is  the  approach  of  morning,  and  its 
sweet- voiced  herald,  the  lark.  The  minstrel's  song  to  his 
lady-love  frequently  commences  with  an  allusion  to  the 
hour. 

"  When  the  rose-bud  opes  its  een, 

And  the  bluebells  droop  and  die, 
And  upon  the  leaves  so  green 
Sparkling  dew-drops  lie." 

The  following  is  at  once  the  simplest  and  prettiest 
piece  of  this  kind  which  I  have  ever  met  with  among 
the  early  lyric  poets  of  the  North  of  France.  It  is  taken 
from  an  anonymous  poem,  entitled  "  The  Paradise  of 
Love."  A  lover,  having  passed  the  "livelong  night  in 
tears,  as  he  was  wont,"  goes  forth  to  beguile  his  sorrows 
Avith  the  fragrance  and  beauty  of 'morning.  The  carol  of 
the  vaulting  skylark  salutes  his  ear,  and  to  this  merry 
musician  he  makes  his  complaint. 

"  Hark  !  hark  1 

Pretty  lark  ! 

Little  heedest  thou  my  pain  1 
But  if  to  these  longing  arms 
Pitying  Love  would  yield  the  cuarms 

Of  the  fair 

With  smiling  air, 
Blithe  would  beat  my  heart  again. 


THE   TROUVERES.  83 

"Hark!  hark  ! 

Pretty  lark  ! 

Little  heedest  them  my  pain! 
Love  may  force  me  still  to  bear, 
While  he  lists,  consuming  care* 

But  in  anguish 

Though  I  languish, 
Faithful  shall  my  heart  remain. 

"Hark  !  hark  ! 

Pretty  lark  ! 

Little  heedest  thou  my  pain  I 
Then  cease,  Love,  to  torment  me  so ; 
But  rather  than  all  thoughts  forego 

Of  the  fair 

With  flaxen  hair, 
Give  me  back  her  frowns  again. 

"Hark  !  hark  I 

Pretty  lark  I 
Little  heedest  thou  my  pain ! " 

Besides  the  "  woeful  ballad  made  to  his  mistress's  eye- 
brow,"  the  early  lyric  poet  frequently  indulges  in  more 
calmly  analyzing  the  philosophy  of  love,  or  in  questioning 
the  object  and  destination  of  a  sigh.  Occasionally  these 
quaint  conceits  are  prettily  expressed,  and  the  little  song 
flutters  through  the  page  like  a  butterfly.  The  following 
is  an  example  : — 

"And  whither  goest  thou,  gentle  sigh, 
Breathed  so  softly  in  my  ear  ? 
Say,  dost  thou  bear  his  fate  severe 
To  Love's  poor  martyr  doomed  to  die? 
Come,  tell  me  quickly, — do  not  lie; 

What  secret  message  brings't  thou  here? 
And  whither  goest  thou,  gentle  sigh, 
Breathed  so  softly  in  my  ear? 


84  THE   TEOTTVERES. 

"  May  Heaven  conduct  thee  to  thy  will, 

And  safely  speed  thee  on  thy  way ; 

This  only  I  would  humbly  pray, — 

Pierce  deep, — but  0 !  forbear  to  kill. 

And  whither  goest  thou,  gentle  sigh, 

Breathed  so  softly  in  my  ear  ?  " 

The  ancient  lyric  poets  of  France  are  generally  spoken 
of  as  a  class,  and  their  beauties  and  defects  referred  to 
them  collectively,  and  not  individually.  In  truth,  there 
are  few  characteristic  marks  by  which  any  individual  au 
thor  can  be  singled  out  and  ranked  above  the  rest.  The 
lyric  poets  of  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth  centuries 
stand  nearly  upon  the  same  level.  But  in  the  fifteenth 
century  there  were  two  who  surpassed  all  their  contem 
poraries  in  the  beauty  and  delicacy  of  their  sentiments ; 
and  in  the  sweetness  of  their  diction,  and  the  structure 
of  their  verse,  stand  far  in  advance  of  the  age  in  which 
they  lived.  These  are  Charles  d'Orleans  and  Clotilde  de 
Surville. 

Charles,  Duke  of  Orleans,  the  father  of  Louis  XII. , 
and  uncle  of  Francis  I.,  was  born  in  1391.  In  the  general 
tenor  of  his  life,  the  peculiar  character  of  his  mind,  and 
his  talent  for  poetry,  there  is  a  striking  resemblance  be 
tween  this  noble  poet  and  James  I.  of  Scotland,  his  con 
temporary.  Both  were  remarkable  for  learning  and  re 
finement  ;  both  passed  a  great  portion  of  their  lives  in 
sorrow  and  imprisonment ;  and  both  cheered  the  solitude 
of  their  prison-walls  with  the  charms  of  poetry.  Charles 
d'Orleans  was  taken  prisoner  at  the  battle  of  Agincourt, 
in  1415,  and  carried  into  England,  where  lie  remained 
twenty-five  years  in  captivity.  It  was  there  that  he 
composed  the  greater  part  of  his  poetry.  In  1440  he 
reti1/  M!  to  France  where  he  died  in  14G7. 


THE   TBOUVfiEES.  85 

The  poems  of  this  writer  exhibit  a  singular  delicacy  of 
thought  and  sweetness  of  expression.  The  folio  wing  little 
Renouveaux,  or  songs  on  the  return  of  spring,  are  full  of 
delicacy  and  beauty, 

"  Now  Time  throws  off  his  cloak  again 
Of  ermined  frost,  and  wind,  and  rain, 
And  clothes  him  in  the  embroidery 
Of  glittering  sun  and  clear  blue  sky. 
With  beast  and  bird  the  forest  rings, 
Each  in  his  jargon  cries  or  sings ; 
And  Time  throws  off  his  cloak  again 
Of  ermined  frost,  and  wind,  and  ruin. 

"  River,  and  fount,  and  tinkling  brook 

Wear  in  their  dainty  livery 

Drops  of  silver  jewelry; 
In  new-made  suit  they  merry  look; 

And  Time  throws  off  his  cloak  again 
Of  e-mined  frost,  and  wind,  and  rain." 

The  second  upon  the  same  subject  presents  a  still  more 
agreeable  picture  of  the  departure  of  winter  and  the 
sweet  return  of  spring. 

"  Gentle  spring  ! — in  sunshine  clad, 

Well  dost  thou  thy  power  display  ! 
For  winter  maketh  the  light  heart  sad, 

And  thou, — thou  makest  the  sad  heart  gay. 
He  sees  thee,  and  calls  to  his  gloomy  train. 
The  sleet,  and  the  snow,  a,nd  the  wind,  and  the  rain  $ 
And  they  shrink  away,  and  they  flee  in  fear, 
When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 

*  Winter  giveth  the  fields  and  the  trees  so  old 

Their  beards  of  icicles  and  snow  ; 
And  the  rain,  it  raineth  so  fast  and  cold, 
We  must  cower  ever  the  embers  low  ; 


86  THE   TROUVERES. 

And.  snugly  housed  from  the  wind  and  weather, 
Mope  like  birds  that  are  changing  feather. 
But  the  storm  retires,  and  the  sky  grows  clear, 
When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 

"  Winter  maketh  the  sun  in  the  gloomy  sky 
Wrap  him  round  in  a  mantle  of  cloud  ; 
But,  Heaven  be  praised,  thy  step  is  nigh  ; 
Thou  tearest  away  the  mournful  shroud, 
And  the  earth  looks  bright, — and  winter  surly, 
Who  has  toiled  for  naugnt  both  late  and  early, 
Is  banished  afar  by  the  new-born  year, 

When  thy  merry  step  draws  near." 

The  only  person  of  that  age  who  can  dispute  the  laurel 
with  Charles  d'Orleans  is  Clotilde  de  Surville.  This 
sweet  poetess  was  born  in  the  Bas-Vivarais,  in  the  year 
1405.  Her  style  is  singularly  elegant  and  correct ;  and 
the  reader  who  will  take  the  trouble  to  decipher  her  rude 
provincial  orthography  will  find  her  writings  full  of  quiet 
beauty.  The  following  sweet  lines,  which  breathe  the  very 
soul  of  maternal  tenderness,  are  part  of  a  little  poem  to 
her  first-born. 

"  Sweet  babe  !  true  portrait  of  thy  father's  face, 

Sleep  on  the  bosom  that  thy  lips  have  pressed  ! 
Sleep,  little  one  ;  and  closely,  gently  place 
Thy  drowsy  eyelid  on  thy  mother's  breast ! 

"  Upon  that  tender  eye,  my  little  friend, 

Soft  sleep  shall  come  that  cometh  not  to  me  ! 
I  watch  to  see  thee,  nourish  thee,  defend  ;  — 
'Tis  sweet  to  watch  for  thee, — alone  for  thes  ! 

"  His  arms  fall  down  ;  sleep  sits  upon  his  brow  ; 

His  eye  is  closed  ;  he  sleeps, — how  still  and  calm  ! 
Wore  not  his  cheek  the  apple's  ruddy  glow, 

Would  you  not  say  he  slept  on  Death's  cold  arm  ? 


THE   TROUVERES.  87 

"  Awake,  my  boy  !  —  I  tremble  with  affright ! 

Awake,  and  chase  this  fatal  thought  !  —  unclose 
Thine  eye  but  for  one  moment  on  the  light  ! 
Even  at  the  price  of  thine,  give  me  repose  ! 

"  Sweet  error  ! — he  but  slept  ; — I  breathe  again  ; 

Come,  gentle  dreams,  the  hour  of  sleep  beguile  ? 
0,  when  shall  he  for  whom  I  sigh  in  vain 
Beside  me  watch  to  see  thy  waking  smile  ?  " 


But  upon  this  theme  I  have  written  enough,  perhaps 
too  much. 

"  '  This  may  be  poetry,  for  aught  I  know,' 

Says  an  old,  worthy  friend  of  mine,  while  leaning 
Over  my  shoulder  as  I  write, — '  although 
I  can't  exactly  comprehend  its  meaning.' " 

I  have  touched  upon  the  subject  before  me  in  a  brief 
and  desultory  manner,  and  have  purposely  left  my  re 
marks  unemcumbered  by  learned  reference  and  far-sought 
erudition  ;  for  these  are  ornaments  which  would  ill  be 
come  so  trivial  a  pen  as  this  wherewith  I  write,  though, 
perchance,  the  want  of  them  will  render  my  essay  unsat 
isfactory  to  the  scholar  and  the  critic.  But  I  am  em 
boldened  thus  to  skim  with  a  light  wing  over  this  poetic 
lore  of  the  past,  by  the  reflection  that  the  greater  part 
of  my  readers  belong  not  to  that  grave  and  serious  class 
who  love  the  deep  wisdom  which  lies  in  quoting  from  a 
quaint,  forgotten  tome,  and  are  ready  on  all  occasions  to 
gay,  "  Commend  me  to  the  owl !" 


THE  BAPTISM   OF  FIRE. 


The  more  yon  mow  us  down,  the  thicker  we  rise  ;  the  Christian  blood  yo« 
spill  is  like  the  seed  you  sow,— it  springs  from  the  earth  again  and  fructifies  the 
more. 

TEKTULLIAN. 


AS  day  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  the  rays  of  the 
setting  sun  climbed  slowly  up  the  dungeon  wall, 
the  prisoner  sat  and  read  in  a  tome  with  silver  clasps. 
He  was  a  man  in  the  vigor  of  his  days,  with  a  pale  and 
noble  countenance,  that  wore  less  the  marks  of  worldly 
care  than  of  high  and  holy  thought.  His  temples  were 
already  bald  ;  but  a  thick  and  curling  beard  bespoke  the 
strength  of  manhood  ;  and  his  eye,  dark,  full,  and  elo 
quent,  beamed  with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  a  martyr. 

The  book  before  him  was  a  volume  of  the  early  Chris 
tian  Fathers.  He  was  reading  the  Apologetic  of  the  elo 
quent  Tertullian,  the  oldest  and  ablest  writer  of  the  Latin 
Church.  At  times  he  paused,  and  raised  his  eyes  to 
heaven  as  if  in  prayer,  and  then  read  on  again  in  silence. 
At  length  a  passage  seemed  to  touch  his  inmost  souL 
He  read  aloud  : — 

"Give  us,  then,  what  names  you  please;  from  the 
instruments  of  cruelty  you  torture  us  by,  call  us  Sarmen- 
ticians  and  Semaxians,  because  you  fasten  us  to  trunks  of 
trees,  and  stick  us  about  with  fagots  to  set  us  on  fire  ;  yet 
let  me  tell  you,  when  we  are  thus  begirt  and  dressed 
about  with  fire,  we  are  then  in  our  most  illustrious  apparel. 
These  are  our  victorious  palms  and  robes  of  glory  ;  and, 


THE  BAPTISM  OF  FIRE.  89 

mounted  on  our  funeral  pile,  we  look  upon  ourselves  as 
in  our  triumphal  chariot.  No  Avonder,  then,  such  pus- 
Hive  heroes  please  not  those  they  vanquish  Avith  such  con 
quering  sufferings.  And  therefore  we  pass  for  men  of 
despair,  and  violently  bent  upon  our  OAvn  destruction. 
However,  that  Avhich  you  are  pleased  to  call  madness  and 
despair  in  us  are  the  very  actions  Avhich,  under  virtue's 
standard,  lift  up  your  sons  of  fame  and  glory,  and  embla 
zon  them  to  future  ages." 

He  arose  and  paced  the  dungeon  to  and  fro,  Avitli  folded 
arms  and  a  firm  step.  His  thoughts  held  communion 
Avith  eternity. 

"Father  Avhich  art  in  heaven  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "give 
me  strength  to  die  like  those  holy  men  of  old,  Avho 
scorned  to  purchase  life  at  the  expense  of  truth.  That, 
truth  lias  made  me  free  ;  and  though  condemned  on  earth, 
I  know  that  I  am  absolved  in  heaven  !" 

He  again  seated  himself  at  his  table,  and  read  in  that 
tome  with  silver  clasps. 

This  solitary  prisoner  was  Anne  Du  Bourg.  a  man  who 
feared  not  man  ;  once  a  merciful  judge  in  that  august 
tribunal  upon  Avhose  voice  hung  the  life  and  death  of  those 
who  Averc  persecuted  for  conscience'  sake,  he  Avas  HOAV 
himself  an  accused,  a  convicted  heretic,  condemned  to  the 
Baptism  of  Fire,  because  he  Avould  not  unrighteously  con 
demn  others.  He  had  dared  to  plead  the  cause  of  suffer 
ing  humanity  before  that  dread  tribunal,  and,  in  the 
presence  of  the  king  himself,  to  declare  that  it  Avas  ;in 
offence  to  the  majesty  of  God  to  shed  man's  blood  in  lii.s 
name.  Six  Aveary  months — from  June  to  December — he 
had  lain  a  prisoner  in  that  dungeon,  from  which  a  death 
by  fire  Avas  soon  to  set  him  free.  Such  Avas  the  clemency 
of  Henry  II.  ! 


90  THE  BAPTISM  OF  FIRE. 

As  the  prisoner  read,  his  eyes  were  filled  with  tears. 
He  still  gazed  upon  the  printed  page,  but  it  was  a  blank 
before  his  eyes.  His  thoughts  were  far  away  amid  the 
scenes  of  his  childhood,  amid  the  green  valleys  of  Eiom 
and  the  Golden  Mountains  of  Auvergnc.  Some  simple 
word  had  called  up  the  vision  of  the  past.  He  was  a 
child  again.  He  was  playing  with  the  pebbles  of  the 
brook, — he  was  shouting  to  the  echo  of  the  hills, — he 
was  playing  at  his  mother's  knee,  with  his  little  hands 
clasped  in  hers. 

This  dream  of  childhood  was  broken  by  the  grating  of 
bolts  and  bars,  as  the  jailer  opened  the  prison-door.  A 
moment  afterward,  his  former  colleague,  De  Harley, 
stood  at  his  side. 

"  Thou  here  ! "  exclaimed  the  prisoner,  surprised  at 
the  visit.  "  Thou  in  the  dungeon  of  a  heretic  !  On 
what  errand  hast  thou  come  ?  " 

"On  an  errand  of  mercy,"  replied  De  Harley.  "I 
come  to  tell  thee " 

"  That  the  hour  of  my  death  draws  near  ?" 

"That  thou  mayst  still  be  saved." 

"  Yes  ;  if  I  will  bear  false  witness  against  my  God, — 
barter  heaven  for  earth, — an  eternity  for  a  few  brief  days 
of  worldly  existence.  Lost,  thou  shouldst  say, — lost,  not 
saved  ! " 

"  No  !  saved  ! "  cried  De  Harley  with  warmth  ;  "  saved 
from  a  death  of  shame  and  an  eternity  of  woe  !  Renounce 
this  false  doctrine, — this  abominable  heresy, — and  return 
again  to  the  bosom  of  the  church  which  thou  dost  rend 
with  strife  and  dissension." 

"  God  judge  between  thee  and  me,  which  has  embraced 
the  truth." 

"His  hand  already  smites  thee." 


THE  BAPTISM  OF  FIRE.  91 

"  It  lias  fallen  more  heavily  upon  those  who  so  unjust  1  y 
persecute  me.  Where  is  the  king  ? — he  who  said  that 
with  his  own  eyes  he  would  behold  me  perish  at  the 
stake  ? — he  to  whom  the  undaunted  Du  Faur  cried,  like 
Elijah  to  Ahab,  '  It  is  thou  who  troublest  Israel  ! ' — • 
Where  is  the  king?  Called,  through  a  sudden  and  vio 
lent  death,  to  the  judgment-seat  of  Heaven  ! — Where  is 
Minard,  the  persecutor  of  the  just  ?  Slain  by  the  hand 
of  an  assassin  !  It  was  not  without  reason  that  I  said  to 
him,  when  standing  before  my  accusers,  '  Tremble  !  be 
lieve  the  word  of  one  who  is  about  to  appear  before  God  ; 
thou  likewise  shalt  stand  there  soon, — thou  that  sheddest 
the  blood  of  the  children  of  peace.'  He  has  gone  to  his 
account  before  me." 

"And  that  menace  has  hastened  thine  own  condem 
nation.  Minard  was  slain  by  the  Huguenots,  and  it  is 
whispered  that  thou  wast  privy  to  his  death." 

"  This,  at  least,  might  have  been  spared  a  dying  man  I " 
replied  the  prisoner,  much  agitated  by  so  unjust  and  so 
unexpected  an  accusation.  "As  I  hope  for  mercy  here 
after,  I  am  innocent  of  the  blood  of  this  man,  and  of  all 
knowledge  of  so  foul  a  crime.  But,  tell  me,  hast  thou 
come  here  only  to  embitter  my  last  hours  with  such  an 
accusation  as  this  ?  If  so,  I  pray  thee,  leave  me.  My 
moments  are  precious.  I  would  be  alone." 

"I  came  to  offer  thee  life,  freedom,  and  happiness." 

"  Life, — freedom, — happiness  !  At  the  price  thou  hast 
set  upon  them,  I  scorn  them  all  !  Had  the  apostles  and 
martyrs  of  the  early  Christian  Church  listened  to  such 
paltry  bribes  as  these,  where  wrere  now  the  faith  in  which 
we  trust  ?  These  holy  men  of  old  shall  answer  for  me. 
Hear  what  Justin  Martyr  says,  in  his  earnest  appeal  to 
Antonine  the  Pious,  in  behalf  of  the  Christians  who  in 


92  THE  BAPTISM  OF  FIRE. 

his  day  were  unjustly  loaded  with  public  odium  and  op 
pression." 

He  opened  the  volume  before  him  and  read  : — 

"I  could  wish  you  would  take  this  also  into  considers^ 
tion,  that  what  we  say  is  really  for  your  own  good  ;  for  it 
is  in  our  power  at  any  time  to  escape  your  torments  by 
denying  the  faith,  when  you  question  us  about  it  :  but 
we  scorn  to  purchase  life  at  the  expense  of  a  lie  ;  for  our 
souls  are  winged  with  a  desire  of  a  life  of  eternal  duration 
and  purity,  of  an  immediate  conversation  with  God,  the 
Father  and  Maker  of  all  things.  We  are  in  haste  to  be 
confessing  and  finishing  our  faith  ;  being  fully  persuaded 
that  we  shall  arrive  at  this  blessed  state,  if  we  approve 
ourselves  to  God  by  our  works,  and  by  our  obedience 
express  our  passion  for  that  divine  life  which  is  never 
interrupted  by  any  clashing  evil." 

The  Catholic  and  the  Huguenot  reasoned  long  and 
earnestly  together ;  but  they  reasoned  in  vain.  Each  was 
firm  in  his  belief ;  and  they  parted  to  meet  no  more  on 
earth. 

On  the  following  day,  Du  Bourg  was  summoned  before 
his  judges  to  receive  his  final  sentence.  He  heard  it 
unmoved,  and  with  a  prayer  to  God  that  he  would  par 
don  those  who  had  condemned  him  according  to  their 
consciences.  He  then  addressed  his  judges  in  an  oration 
full  of  power  and  eloquence.  It  closed  with  these  words  : — 

"  And  now,  ye  judges,  if,  indeed,  you  hold  the  sword 
of  God  as  ministers  of  his  wrath,  to  take  vengeance  upon 
those  who  do  evil,  beware,  I  charge  you,  beware  how  you 
condemn  us.  Consider  Avell  what  evil  we  have  done ; 
and,  before  all  things,  decide  whether  it  be  just  that  we 
should  listen  unto  you  rather  than  unto  God.  Are  you 
so  drunken  with  the  wine-cup  of  the  great  sorceress,  thai 


TIIE  BAPTISM  OF  FIRE.  93 

you  drink  poison  for  nourishment  ?  Are  you  not  those 
who  make  the  people  sin,  by  turning  them  away  from  the 
service  of  God?  And  if  you  regard  more  the  opinion  of 
men  than  that  of  Heaven,  in  what  esteem  are  you  held  by 
other  nations,  and  principalities,  and  powers,  for  the 
martyrdoms  you  have  caused  in  obedience  to  this  blood 
stained  Phalaris  ?  God  grant,  thou  cruel  tyrant,  that  by 
thy  miserable  death  thou  mayst  put  an  end  to  our 
groans  ! 

'•  Why  weep  ye  ?  What  means  this  delay  ?  Your 
hearts  are  heavy  within  you, — your  consciences  are  liaui  1 1  ed 
by  the  judgment  of  God.  And  thus  it  is  that  the  con 
demned  rejoice  in  the  fires  you  have  kindled,  and  think 
they  never  live  better  than  in  the  midst  of  consuming 
flames.  Torments  affright  them  not, — insults  enfeeble 
them  not ;  their  honor  is  redeemed  by  death, — he  that 
dies  is  the  conqueror,  and  the  conquered  he  that  mourns. 

uNo!  whatever '  snares  are  spread  for  us,  whatever 
suffering  we  endure,  you  cannot  separate  us  from  the  love 
of  Christ.  Strike,  then, — slay, — grind  us  to  powder  ! 
Those  that  die  in  the  Lord  shall  live  again  ;  we  shall  all 
be  raised  together.  Condemn  me  as  you  will, — I  am  a 
Christian  ;  yes,  I  am  a  Christian,  and  am  ready  to  die  for 
the  glory  of  our  Lord, — for  the  truth  of  the  Evangelists. 

"  Quench,  then,  your  fires  !  Let  the  wicked  abandon 
his  way,  and  return  unto  the  Lord,  and  he  will  have  com 
passion  on  him.  Live, — be  happy, — and  meditate  on 
God,  ye  judges  !  As  for  me,  I  go  rejoicing  to  my  death. 
What  wait  ye  for  ?  Lead  me  to  the  scaffold  ! " 

They  bound  the  prisoner's  hands,  and,  leading  him 
forth  from  the  council-chamber,  placed  him  upon  the 
cart  that  u as  to  bear  him  to  the  Place  do  Grove.  Before 
and  behind  marched  a  guard  of  live  hundred  soldiers ;  for 


94  THE  BAPTISM  OF  FIRE. 

Du  Bourg  was  beloved  by  the  people,  and  a  populai 
tumult  was  apprehended.  The  day  was  overcast  and  sad , 
and  ever  and  anon  the  sound  of  the  tolling  bell  mingled 
its  dismal  clang  with  the  solemn  notes  of  the  funeral 
march.  They  soon  reached  the  place  of  execution,  which 
was  already  filled  with  a  dense  and  silent  crowd.  In  the 
centre  stood  the  gallows,  with  a  pile  of  fagots  beneath  it, 
and  the  hangman  with  a  burning  torch  in  his  hand.  But 
this  funeral  apparel  inspired  no  terror  in  the  heart  of  Du 
Bourg.  A  look  of  triumph  beamed  from  his  eye,  and  his 
countenance  shone  like  that  of  an  angel.  With  his  own 
hands  he  divested  himself  of  his  outer  garments,  and, 
gazing  round  upon  the  breathless  and  sympathizing  crowd, 
exclaimed, — 

"My  friends,  I  come  not  hither  as  a  thief  or  a  mur- 
derder  ;  but  it  is  for  the  Gospel's  sake  !" 

A  cord  was  then  fastened  round  his  waist,  and  he  was 
drawn  up  into  the  air.  At  the  same  moment  the  burning 
torch  of  the  executioner  was  applied  to  the  fagots  beneath, 
and  the  thick  volumes  of  smoke  concealed  the  martyr  from 
the  horror-stricken  crowd.  One  stifled  groan  arose  from 
all  that  vast  multitude,  like  the  moan  of  the  sea,  and  all 
was  hushed  again  ;  save  the  crackling  of  the  fagots,  and 
at  intervals  the  funeral  knell,  that  smote  the  very  soul. 
The  quivering  flames  darted  upward  and  around  ;  and  an 
agonizing  cry  broke  from  the  murky  cloud, — 

"  My  God  !  my  God !  forsake  me  not,  that  I  forsake 
not  thee  ! " 

The  wind  lifted  the  reddening  smoke  like  a  veil,  and  the 
form  of  the  martyr  was  seen  to  fall  into  the  fire  beneath, 
that  glowed  like  a  furnace  seven  times  heated.  In  a 
moment  it  rose  again,  its  garments  all  in  flame  ;  and  agair 
the  faint,  half-smothered  cry  of  agony  was  heard,— 


THE  BAPTISM  OF  FIRE.  95 

"  My  God  !  my  God  !  forsake  me  not,  that  I  forsako 
not  thee  ! " 

Once  more  the  quivering  body  descended  into  the 
names  ;  and  once  more  it  was  lifted  into  the  air,  a  black' 
ened,  burning  cinder.  Again  and  again  this  fiendish 
mockery  of  baptism  was  repeated  ;  till  the  martyr,  with 
a  despairing,  suffocating  voice,  exclaimed, — 

"  0  God  !  I  cannot  die  ! " 

The  executioner  came  forward,  and,  either  in  mercy  to 
the  dying  man  or  through  fear  of  the  populace,  threw  a 
noose  over  his  neck,  and  strangled  the  almost  lifeless  vic 
tim.  At  the  same  moment  the  cord  which  held  the  body 
was  loosened,  and  it  fell  into  the  fire  to  rise  no  more. 
And  thus  was  consummated  the  martyrdom  of  the  Bap 
tism  of  Fire. 


COQ-A-L'lNE. 

My  brain,  methinks,  is  like  an  hour-glass, 
Wherein  my  imaginations  run  like  sands, 
Filling  up  time  ;  but  then  are  turned,  and  turned, 
So  that  I  know  not  what  to  stay  upon 
And  less  to  put  in  art. 

BEN  JONSON. 

A  RAINY  and  gloomy  winter  was  just  drawing  to  its 
close,  when  I  left  Paris  for  the  South  of  France. 
Wo  started  ut  sunrise ;  and  as  we  passed  along  the  soli 
tary  streets  of  the  vast  and  silent  metropolis,  drowsily  one 
by  one  its  clanging  horologes  chimed  the  hour  of  six. 
Beyond  the  city  gates  the  wide  landscape  was  covered 
with  a  silvery  network  of  frost ;  a  wreath  of  vapor  over 
hung  the  windings  of  the  Seine ;  and  every  twig  and 
shrub,  with  its  sheath  of  crystal,  flashed  in  the  level  rays 
of  the  rising  sun.  The  sharp,  frosty  air  seemed  to  quicken 
the  sluggish  blood  of  the  old  postilion  and  his  horses  ; — 
a  fresh  team  stood  ready  in  harness  at  each  stage ;  and 
notwithstanding  the  slippery  pavement  of  the  causeway, 
the  long  and  tedious  climbing  the  hillside  upward,  and 
the  equally  long  and  tedious  descent  with  chained  wheels 
and  the  drag,  just  after  nightfall  the  lumbering  vehicle 
-jf  Vincent  Caillard  stopped  at  the  gateway  of  the  "  Three 
Emperors,"  in  the  famous  city  of  Orleans. 

I  cannot  pride  myself  much  upon  being  a  good  travel 
ling  companion,  for  the  rocking  of  a  coach  always  lulls 
me  into  forgetfulness  of  the  present ;  and  no  sooner  does 
the  hollow,  monotonous  rumbling  of  the  wheels  reach  my 
96 


97 

ear,  than,  like  my  friend  Nick  Bottom,  "  I  liave  an  expo 
sition  of  sleep  come  upon  me."  It  is  not,  however,  the 
deep,  sonorous  slumber  of  a  laborer,  "stuffed  with  dis 
tressful  bread,"  but  a  kind  of  day-dream,  wherein  the 
creations  of  fancy  seem  realities,  and  the  real  world, 
which  swims  dizzily  before  the  half-shut,  drowsy  eye,  bc~ 
comes  mingled  with  the  imaginary  world  within.  This  is 
doubtless  a  very  great  failing  in  a  traveller  ;  and  I  confess, 
with  all  humility,  that  at  times  the  line  of  demarcation 
between  truth  and  fiction  is  rendered  thereby  so  indefinite 
and  indistinct,  that  I  cannot  always  determine,  with  un 
erring  certainty,  whether  an  event  really  happened  to  me, 
or  whether  I  only  dreamed  it. 

On  this  account  I  shall  not  attempt  a  detailed  descrip 
tion  of  my  journey  from  Paris  to  Bordeaux.  I  was  trav 
elling  like  a  bird  of  passage  ;  and  five  weary  days  and 
four  weary  nights  I  was  on  the  way.  The  diligence 
stopped  only  to  change  horses,  and  for  the  travellers  to 
take  their  meals ;  and  by  night  I  slept  with  my  head 
under  my  wing  in  a  snug  corner  of  the  coach. 

Strange  as  it  may  appear  to  some  of  my  readers,  this 
night-travelling  is  at  times  far  from  being  disagreeable  ; 
nay,  if  the  country  is  flat  and  uninteresting,  and  you  are 
favored  with  a  moon,  it  may  be  very  pleasant.  As  the 
night  advances,  the  conversation  around  you  gradually 
dies  away,  and  is  imperceptibly  given  up  to  some  garru 
lous  traveller  who  finds  himself  belated  in  the  midst  of  a 
long  story  ;  and  when  at  length  he  puts  out  his  feelers  in 
the  form  of  a  question,  discovers,  by  the  silenco  around 
him,  that  the  breathless  attention  of  his  audience  is  ow 
ing  to  their  being  asleep.  All  is  now  silent.  You  let 
down  the  window  of  the  carriage,  and  the  fresh  night-air 
cools  your  flushed  and  burning  cheek.  The  landscape, 
7 


98  COQ-A-L'AtfE. 

though  in  reality  dull  and  uninteresting,  seems  beautiful 
as  it  floats  by  in  the  soft  moonshine.  Every  ruined  hovel 
is  changed  by  the  magic  of  night  to  a  trim  cottage,  every 
straggling  and  dilapidated  hamlet  becomes  as  beautiful 
as  those  we  read  of  in  poetry  and  romance.  Over  the 
lowland  hangs  a  silver  mist  ;  over  the  hills  peep  the 
twinkling  stars.  The  keen  night-air  is  a  spur  to  the  pos 
tilion  and  his  horses.  In  the  words  of  the  German  bal 
lad, — 

"  Halloo  !  halloo  !  away  they  go, 

Unheeding  wet  or  dry, 
And  horse  and  rider  snort  and  blow, 

And  sparkling  pebbles  fly. 
And  all  on  which  the  moon  doth  shine 

Behind  them  flees  afar, 
And  backward  sped,  scud  overhead, 

The  sky  and  every  star." 

Anon  you  stop  at  the  relay.  The  drowsy  hostler  crawls 
out  of  the  stable-yard ;  a  few  gruff  words  and  strange 
oaths  pass  between  him  and  the  postilion, — then  there  is 
a  coarse  joke  in  patois,  of  Avhich  you  understand  the 
ribaldry  only,  and  which  is  followed  by  a  husky  laugh,  a 
sound  between  a  hiss  and  a  growl ; — and  then  you  are  off 
again  in  a  crack.  Occasionally  a  way-traveller  is  uncaged, 
and  a  new-coiner  takes  the  vacant  perch  at  your  elbow. 
Meanwhile  your  busy  fancy  speculates  upon  all  these 
things,  and  you  fall  asleep  amid  its  thousand  vagaries. 
Soon  you  wake  again,  and  snuff  the  morning  air.  It  was 
but  a  moment,  and  yet  the  night  is  gone.  The  gray  of 
twilight  steals  into  the  window,  and  gives  a  ghastly  look 
to  the  countenances  of  the  sleeping  group  around  you. 
One  sits  bolt  upright  in  a  corner,  offending  none,  and 
stiff  and  motionless  as  an  Egyptian  mummy  ;  another  sits 


99 

equally  straight  and  immovable,  but  snores  like  a  priest ; 
the  head  of  a  third  is  dangling  over  his  shoulder,  and  the 
tassel  of  his  nightcap  tickles  his  neighbor's  ear  ;  a  fourth 
has  lost  his  hat, — his  wig  is  awry,  and  his  under-lip  hangs 
lolling  about  like  an  idiot's.  The  whole  scene  is  a  living 
caricature  of  man,  presenting  human  nature  in  some  of 
the  grotesque  attitudes  she  assumes,  when  that  pragmati 
cal  schoolmaster,  Propriety,  has  fallen  asleep  in  his  chair, 
and  the  unruly  members  of  his  charge  are  freed  from  the 
thraldom  of  the  rod. 

On  leaving  Orleans,  instead  of  following  the  great 
western  mail-route  through  Tours,  Poitiers,  and  Angou- 
leme,  and  thence  on  to  Bordeaux,  I  struck  across  the  de 
partments  of  the  Indre,  Haute-Vienne,  and  the  Dor- 
dogne,  passing  through  the  provincial  capitals  of  Chateau- 
roux,  Limoges,  and  Perigueux.  South  of  the  Loire  the 
country  assumes  a  more  mountainous  aspect,  and  the 
landscape  is  broken  by  long  sweeping  hills  and  fertile 
valleys.  Many  a  fair  scene  invites  the  traveller's  foot  to 
pause  ;  and  his  eye  roves  with  delight  over  the  picturesque 
landscape  of  the  valley  of  the  Creuse,  and  the  beautiful 
highland  scenery  near  Perigueux.  There  are  also  many 
objects  of  art  and  antiquity  which  arrest  his  attention. 
Argenton  boasts  its  Roman  amphitheatre,  and  the  ruins 
of  an  old  castle  built  by  King  Pepin ;  at  Chains  the 
tower  beneath  which  Richard  Coeur-de-Lion  was  slain  is 
still  pointed  out  to  the  curious  traveller ;  and  Purigueux 
is  full  of  crumbling  monuments  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

Scenes  like  these,  and  the  constant  chatter  of  my  fel 
low-travellers,  served  to  enliven  the  tedium  of  a  long  and 
fatiguing  journey.  The  French  are  pre-eminently  a  talking 
people  ;  and  every  new  object  afforded  a  topic  for  light 
and  animated  discussion.  The  affairs  of  church  and 


100  COq-A-UANE. 

state  were,  however,  the  themes  oftenest  touched  upon. 
The  bill  for  the  suppression  of  the  liberty  of  the  press 
was  then  under  discussion  in  the  Chamber  of  Peers,  and 
excited  the  most  lively  interest  through  the  whole  king 
dom.  Of  course  it  was  a  subject  not  likely  to  be  forgotten 
in  a  stage-coach. 

"Ah!  mon  Dieu  !"  said  a  brisk  little  man,  with  snow- 
white  hair  and  a  blazing  red  face,  at  the  same  time  draw 
ing  up  his  shoulders  to  a  level  with  his  ears;  "  the  ministry 
are  determined  to  cany  their  point  at  all  events.  They 
mean  to  break  down  the  liberty  of  the  press,  cost  what  it 
will." 

"If  they  succeed,"  added  the  person  who  sat  opposite, 
"  we  may  thank  the  Jesuits  for  it.  It  is  all  their  work. 
They  rule  the  mind  of  our  imbecile  monarch,  and  it  is 
their  miserable  policy  to  keep  the  people  in  darkness." 

"No  doubt  of  that,"  rejoined  the  first  speaker, 
"Why,  no  longer  ago  than  yesterday  I  read  in  the  Figaro 
that  a  printer  had  been  prosecuted  for  publishing  the 
moral  lessons  of  the  Evangelists  without  the  miracles." 

"Is  it  possible  ?"  said  I.  "And  are  the  people  so 
stupid  as  thus  patiently  to  offer  their  shoulders  to  the 
pack-saddle  ?  " 

"Most  certainly  not  !  We  shall  have  another  revo 
lution." 

"If  history  speaks  true,  you  have  had  revolutions 
enough,  during  the  last  century  or  two,  to  satisfy  the 
most  mercurial  nation  on  earth.  You  have  hardly  been 
quiet  a  moment  since  the  day  of  the  Barricades  and  the 
memorable  war  of  the  pots-de-cliambre  in  the  times  of 
the  Grand  Conde." 

"  You  are  pleased  to  speak  lightly  of  our  revolutions, 
sir,"  rejoined  the  politician,  growing  warm.  "You must. 


COQ-A-L'ANK  101 

however,  confess  that  each  successive  one  has  brought  us 
nearer  to  our  object.  Old  institutions,  whose  foundations 
lie  deep  in  the  prejudices  of  a  great  nation,  are  not  to  be 
toppled  down  by  the  springing  of  a  single  mine.  You 
must  confess,  too,  that  our  national  character  is  much 
improved  since  the  days  you  speak  of.  The  youth  of 
the  present  century  are  not  so  frivolous  as  those  of  the 
last.  They  have  no  longer  that  unbounded  levity  and 
Ught-heartedness  so  generally  ascribed  to  them.  From 
this  circumstance  we  have  everything  to  hope.  Our 
revolutions,  likewise,  must  necessarily  change  their  char 
acter  and  secure  to  us  more  solid  advantages  than  hereto 
fore." 

"  Luck  makes  pluck,  as  the  Germans  say.  You  go  on 
bravely ;  but  it  gives  me  pain  to  see  religion  and  the 
church  so  disregarded." 

"Superstition  and  the  church,  you  mean,"  said  the 
gray-headed  man.  "Why,  sir,  the  church  is  nothing 
mnv-a-days  but  a  tumble-down,  dilapidated  tower  for 
rooks  and  daws,  and  such  silly  birds,  to  build  their 
nests  in  ! " 

It  was  now  very  evident  that  I  had  unearthed  a  radi 
cal  ;  and  there  is  no  knowing  when  his  harangue  would 
have  ended,  had  not  his  voice  been  drowned  by  the  noise 
of  the  wheels,  as  we  entered  the  paved  street  of  the  c-ity 
of  Limoges. 

A  breakfast  of  boiled  capon  stuffed  with  iruilles,  and 
.leeompanied  by  a  Pate  de  Perigueux,  a  dish  well  known 
to  Fri'iich  gourmands,  restored  us  all  to  good  humor. 
While  we  were  at  breakfast,  a  personage  stalked  into  the 
room  whose  strange  appearanee  arrested  my  at  tent  ion,  and 
ga\e  subject  for  future  conversation  to  our  party.  He 
was  a  tall,  thin  figure,  armed  with  a  long  whip,  brass 


102  COQ-A-L'ANE. 

spurs,  and  black  whiskers.  He  wore  a  bell-crowned,  var 
nished  hut,  a  blue  frock-coat  with  standing  collar,  a  red 
waistcoat,  a  pair  of  yellow  leather  breeches,  and  boots  that 
reached  to  the  knees.  I  at  first  took  him  for  a  postilion, 
or  a  private  courier ;  but,  upon  inquiry,  I  found  that  he 
was  only  the  son  of  a  notary-public,  and  that  he  dressed 
in  this  strange  fashion  to  please  his  own  fancy. 

As  soon  as  we  were  comfortably  seated  in  the  diligence, 
I  made  some  remark  on  the  singular  costume  of  the  per 
sonage  whom  I  had  just  seen  at  the  tavern. 

"These  things  are  so  common  with  us,"  said  the  poli 
tician,  "  that  we  hardly  notice  them." 

"  What  you  want  in  liberty  of  speech,  then,  you  make 
up  in  liberty  of  dress  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  in  this,  at  least,  we  are  a  free  people." 

"  I  had  not  been  long  in  France,  before  I  discovered 
that  a  man  may  dress  as  he  pleases,  without  being  stared 
at.  The  most  opposite  styles  of  dress  seem  to  be  in  vogue 
at  the  same  moment.  No  strange  garment  nor  desperate 
hat  excites  cither  ridicule  or  surprise.  French  fashions 
are  kno\vn  and  imitated  all  the  world  over." 

"Very  true,  indeed,"  said  a  little  man  in  gosling-green. 
"  We  give  fashions  to  all  other  nations." 

"Fashions  ! "  said  the  politician,  with  a  kind  of  growl, 
—"fashions  !  Yes,  sir,  and  some  of  us  are  simple  enough 
to  boast  of  it,  as  if  we  were  a  nation  of  tailors. " 

Here  the  little  man  in  gosling-green  pulled  up  the 
horns  of  his  cotton  dicky. 

" I  recollect,"  said  I,  "that  your  Madame  de  Pompa 
dour  in  one  of  her  letters  says  something  to  this  effect : 
'  We  furnish  our  enemies  with  hair-dressers,  ribbons,  and 
fashions  ;  and  they  furnish  us  with  laws.": 

"  That  is  not  the  only  silly  thing  she  said  in  her  life- 


103 

time.  Ah!  sir,  these  Pompadours  and  Maintenons,  and 
Montespans  were  the  authors  of  much  woe  to  France. 
Their  follies  and  extravagances  exhausted  the  public 
treasury,  and  made  the  nation  poor.  They  built  palaces, 
and  covered  themselves  with  jewels,  and  ate  from  golden 
plate  ;  while  the  people  who  toiled  for  them  had  hardly  a 
crust  to  keep  their  own  children  from  starvation  !  And. 
yet  they  preach  to  us  the  divine  right  of  kings  ! " 

My  radical  had  got  upon  his  high  horse  again  ;  and  I 
know  not  whither  it  would  have  carried  him,  had  not  a 
thin  man  with  a  black,  seedy  coat,  who  sat  at  his  elbow, 
at  that  moment  crossed  his  path  by  one  of  those  abrupt 
and  sudden  transitions  which  leave  you  aghast  at  the 
strange  association  of  ideas  in  the  speaker's  mind. 

"Apropos  de  boties ! "  exclaimed  he,  "speaking  of 
boots,  and  notaries  public,  and  such  matters, — excuse  me 
for  interrupting  you,  sir, — a  little  story  has  just  popped 
into  my  head  which  may  amuse  the  company ;  and  as  I 
am  not  very  fond  of  political  discussions, — no  offence, 
sir, — I  will  tell  it  for  the  sake  of  changing  the  conver 
sation." 

Whereupon,  without  further  preamble  or  apology,  lit 
proceeded  to  tell  his  story  in,  as  nearly  as  may  be,  the  fol 
lowing  words. 


THE  NOTARY   OF   P^RIGUEUX. 


Do  not  trust   thy  body  with  a  physician.    He'll  make  thy  foolish  bones  go 
without  flesh  in  a  fortnight,  and  thy  goul  walk  \\ithout  a  body  a  pen-night  after. 

SHIRLEY. 


YOU  must  know,  gentlemen,  that  there  lived  some 
years  ago,  in  the  city  of  Perigueux,  an  honest  no 
tary-public,  the  descendant  of  a  very  ancient  and  broken- 
down  family,  and  the  occupant  of  one  of  those  old 
weather-beaten  tenements  which  remind  you  of  the  times 
of  your  great-grandfather.  He  was  a  man  of  an  unoffend 
ing,  sheepish  disposition  ;  the  father  of  a  family,  though 
not  the  head  of  it, — for  in  that  family  "  the  hen  over 
crowed  the  cock,"  and  the  neighbors,  when  they  spake 
of  the  notary,  shrugged  their  shoulders,  and  exclaimed, 
"Poor  fellow!  his  spurs  want  sharpening."  In  fine, — 
you  understand  me,  gentlemen, — he  was  a  hen-pecked 
man. 

"Weil,  finding  no  peace  at  home,  he  sought  it  elsewhere, 
as  was  very  natural  for  him  to  do  ;  and  at  length  discov 
ered  a  place  of  rest,  far  beyond  the  cares  and  clamors 
of  domestic  life.  This  was  a  little  Cafe  Estaminet,  a 
short  way  out  of  the  city,  whither  he  repaired  every  even 
ing  to  smoke  his  pipe,  drink  sugar-water,  and  play  his 
favorite  game  of  domino.  There  he  met  the  boon  com 
panions  he  most  loved  ;  heard  all  the  floating  chitchat 
of  the  day  ;  laughed  when  he  was  in  merry  mood  ;  found 
consolation  when  he  was  sad  ;  and  at  all  times  gave  vent 
104 


THE  NOTAR  T  OF  PfilUG  UEUX.  105 

io  his  opinions,  without  fear  of  being  snubbed  short  by  a 
flat  contradiction. 

Now,  the  notary's  bosom-friend  was  a  dealer  in  claret 
;uid  cognac,  \vlio  lived  about  a  league  from  the  city,  and 
always  passed  his  evenings  at  the  L'stamimt.  He  was.  a 
gross,  corpulent  fellow,  raised  from  a  full-blooded  Gascon 
breed,  and  sired  by  a  comic  actor  of  some  reputation  in 
his  way.  lie  was  remarkable  for  nothing  but  his  good- 
humor,  his  love  of  cards,  and  a  strong  propensity  to  test 
the  quality  of  his  own  liquors  by  comparing  them  with 
those  sold  at  other  places. 

As  evil  communications  corrupt  good  manners,  the 
bad  practices  of  the  wine-dealer  Avon  insensibly  upon  the 
worthy  notary  ;  and  before  he  was  aware  of  it,  he  found 
himself  weaned  from  domino  and  sugar-water,  and  ad 
dicted  to  picquet  and  spiced  wine.  Indeed,  it  not  un- 
frequently  happened,  that,  after  a  long  session  at  the 
Estaminet,  the  two  friends  grew  so  urbane,  that  they 
would  waste  a  full  half-hour  at  the  door  in  friendly  dis 
pute  which  should  conduct  the  other  home. 

Though  this  course  of  life  agreed  A\  ell  enough  with  the 
sluggish,  phlegmatic  temperament  of  the  wine-dealer,  it 
soon  began  to  play  the  very  deuse  with  the  more  sensi 
tive  organization  of  the  notary,  and  finally  put  his  ner 
vous  system  completely  out  of  tune.  He  lost  his  appe 
tite,  became  gaunt  and  haggard,  and  could  get  no  sleep. 
Legions  of  blue-devils  haunted  him  by  day,  and  by  night 
s( range  faces  peeped  through  his  bed-curtains,  and  the 
nightmare  snorted  in  his  ear.  The  worse  he  grew,  the 
more  he  smoked  and  tippled;  and  the  more  he  smoked  and 
tippled, — why,  as  a  matter  of  course,  the  worse  he  grew. 
His  wife  alternately  stormed,  remonstrated,  entreated;  but 
all  in  vain.  She  made  the  house  too  hot  for  him, — he  re- 


)  OG  THE  NOTAR  7  OF  P&RIQ  UEUX. 

treated  to  the  tavern  ;  she  broke  his  long-stemmed  pipes 
upon  tfie  andirons, — he  substituted  a  short-stemmed  one, 
which,  for  safe  keeping,  he  carried  in  his  waistcoat-pocket. 

Thus  the  unhappy  notary  ran  gradually  down  at  the 
heel.  What  with  his  bad  habits  and  his  domestic  griev 
ances,  he  became  completely  hipped.  He  imagined  that 
he  was  going  to  die  ;  and  suffered  in  quick  succession  all 
the  diseases  that  ever  beset  mortal  man.  Every  shooting 
pain  was  an  alarming  symptom, — every  uneasy  feeling 
after  dinner  a  sure  prognostic  of  some  mortal  disease. 
In  vain  did  his  friends  endeavor  to  reason,  and  then  to 
laugh  him  out  of  his  strange  whims ;  for  when  did  ever 
jest  or  reason  cure  a  sick  imagination  ?  His  only  answer 
was,  "  Do  let  me  alone ;  I  know  better  than  you  what 
ails  me." 

Well,  gentlemen,  things  were  in  this  state,  when,  one 
afternoon  in  December,  as  he  sat  moping  in  his  office, 
wrapped  in  an  overcoat,  with  a  cap  on  his  head  and  his 
feet  thrust  into  a  pair  of  furred  slippers,  a  cabriolet  stop 
ped  at  the  door,  and  a  loud  knocking  without  aroused 
him  from  his  gloomy  revery.  It  was  a  message  from  his 
friend  the  wine-dealer,  who  had  been  suddenly  attacked 
with  a  violent  fever,  and,  growing  worse  and  worse,  had 
now  sent  in  the  greatest  haste  for  the  notary  to  draw  up 
his  last  will  and  testament.  The  case  was  urgent,  and 
admitted  neither  excuse  nor  delay  ;  and  the  notary,  tying 
a  handkerchief  round  his  face,  and  buttoning  up  to  the 
chin,  jumped  into  the  cabriolet,  and  suffered  himself, 
though  not  without  some  dismal  presentiments  and  mis 
givings  of  heart,  to  be  driven  to  the  wine-dealer's  house. 

When  he  arrived,  he  found  everything  in  the  greatest 
confusion.  On  entering  the  house,  he  ran  against  the 
apothecary,  who  was  coming  down  stairs,  with  a  face  as 


THE  NOTAR  T  OF  PERIQ  UEUX.  107 

long  as  your  arm,  and  the  pharmaceutical  instruments 
somewhat  longer  ;  and  a  few  steps  farther  he  met  the 
housekeeper — for  the  wine-dealer  was  an  old  bachelor — 
running  up  and  down,  and  wringing  her  hands,  for  fear 
that  the  good  man  should  die  without  making  his  will. 
He  soon  reached  the  chamber  of  his  sick  friend,  and 
found  him  tossing  about  under  a  huge  pile  of  bedclothes, 
in  a  paroxysm  of  fever,  calling  aloud  for  a  draught  of 
cold  water.  The  notary  shook  his  head  ;  he  thought  this 
a  fatal  symptom  ;  for  ten  years  back  the  wine-dealer  had 
been  suffering  under  a  species  of  hydrophobia,  which 
seemed  suddenly  to  have  left  him. 

When  the  sick  man  saw  who  stood  by  his  bedside,  he 
stretched  out  his  hand  and  exclaimed, — 

"Ah  !  my  dear  friend  !  have  you  come  at  last  ?  You 
see  it  is  all  over  with  me.  You  have  arrived  just  in  time 
to  draw  up  that — that  passport  of  mine.  Ah,  grand 
diable  !  how  hot  it  is  here  !  Water, — water, — water  ! 
Will  nobody  give  me  a  drop  of  cold  water  ?" 

As  the  case  was  an  urgent  one,  the  notary  made  no 
delay  in  getting  his  papers  in  readiness ;  and  in  a  short 
time  the  last  will  and  testament  of  the  wine-dealer  was 
drawn  up  in  due  form,  the  notary  guiding  the  sick  man's 
hand  as  he  scrawled  his  signature  at  the  bottom. 

As  the  evening  wore  away,  the  wine-dealer  grew  worse 
and  Avorse,  and  at  length  became  delirious,  mingling  in 
his  incoherent  ravings  the  phrases  of  the  Credo  and  Pat 
ernoster  with  the  shibboleth  of  the  dram-shop  and  the 
card-table. 

"Take  care!  take  care!  There,  now-^Credo  in— 
Pop'!  ting-a-ling-liug  !  give  me  some  of  that.  Cent-e- 
dize  !  Why,  you  old  publican,  this  wine  is  poisoned, — [ 
know  your  tricks  ! — Sanctam  ecclesiam  catholicam — Well, 


108  THE  NOTAR  T  OF  PEE1Q  UEUX. 

well,  we  shall  sec.  Imbecile  !  to  have  a  tierce-major  and 
u  .seven  of  hearts,  and  discard  the  seven !  By  St.  An* 
thony,  capot !  You  are  lurched, — ha  !  ha  !  I  told  you 
so.  I  knew  very  well, — there, — there, — don't  interrupt 
me — Carnis  resurrectiomm  et  vitam  eternam!" 

With  these  words  upon  his  lips,  the  poor  wine-dealei 
expired.  Meanwhile  the  notary  sat  cowering  over  the  fire, 
aghast  at  the  fearful  scene  that  was  passing  before  him,  and 
now  and  then  striving  to  keep  up  his  courage  by  a  glass 
of  cognac.  Already  his  fears  were  on  the  alert ;  and  the 
idea  of  contagion  flitted  to  and  fro  through  his  mind.  In 
order  to  quiet  these  thoughts  of  evil  import,  he  lighted  his 
pipe  and  began  to  prepare  for  returning  home.  At  that 
moment  the  apothecary  turned  round  to  him  and  said, — 

"  Dreadful  sickly  time,  this  !  The  disorder  seems  to 
be  spreading." 

"What  disorder  ?  "  exclaimed  the  notary,  with  a  move 
ment  of  surprise. 

"Two  died  yesterday,  and  three  to-day,"  continued 
the  apothecary,  without  answering  the  question.  "Very 
sickly  time,  sir — very." 

"  But  what  disorder  is  it  ?  What  disease  has  carried 
off  my  friend  here  so  suddenly  ? " 

"  W'hat  disease  ?    Why,  scarlet  fever,  to  be  sure." 

"  And  is  it  contagious  ?" 

"  Certainly  ! " 

"  Then  I  am  a  dead  man  ! "  exclaimed  the  notary,  put 
ting  his  pipe  into  his  waistcoat-pocket,  and  beginning  to 
walk  up  and  down  the  room  in  despair.  "I  am  a  dead 
man  !  Now,  don't  deceive  me, — don't,  will  you  ?  What 
• — what  are  the  symptoms  ?  " 

"  A  sharp  burning  pain  in  the  right  side,"  said  the 
apothecary. 


THE  NOTAR  Y  OF  P&RIG  UEUX.  109 

"  0,  what  a  fool  I  was  to  come  here  !  Take  mo  home 
—take  me  home,  and  let  me  die  in  the  bosom  of  my 
family  ! " 

In  vain  did  the  housekeeper  and  the  apothecary  strive 
to  pacify  him  ; — he  was  not  a  man  to  be  reasoned  with  ; 
lie  answered  that  he  knew  his  own  constitution  better 
than  they  did,  and  insisted  upon  going  home  without  de 
lay.  Unfortunately,  the  vehicle  he  came  in  had  returned 
to  the  city ;  and  the  whole  neighborhood  was  abed  and 
asleep.  AVliat  was  to  be  done  ?  Nothing  in  the  world 
but  to  take  the  apothecary's  horse,  which  stood  hitched 
at  the  door,  patiently,  wait  ing  his  master's  will. 

AVell,  gentlemen,  as  there  was  no  remedy,  our  notary 
mounted  this  raw-boned  steed,  and  set  forth  upon  his 
homeward  journey.  The  night  was  cold  and  gusty,  and 
the  wind  set  right  in  his  teeth.  Overhead  the  leaden 
clouds  were  beating  to  and  fro,  and  through  them  the 
newly  risen  moon  seemed  to  be  tossing  and  drifting  along 
like  a  cock-boat  in  the  surf  ;  now  swallowed  up  in  a  huge 
billow  of  cloud,  and  now  lifted  upon  its  bosom  and  dashed 
with  silvery  spray.  The  trees  by  the  road-side  groaned 
with  a  sound  of  evil  omen  ;  and  before  him  lay  three  mor 
tal  miles,  beset  with  a  thousand  imaginary  perils.  Obe 
dient  to  the  whip  and  spur,  the  steed  leaped  forward  by 
fits  and  starts,  now  dashing  away  in  a  tremendous  gallop, 
and  now  relaxing  into  a  long,  hard  trot  ;  while  the  rider, 
filled  with  symptoms  of  disease  and  dire  presentiments 
of  death,  urged  him  on,  as  if  he  were  fleeing  before  the 
pestilence. 

In  this  way,  by  dint  of  whistling  and  shouting,  and 
beating  right  and  left,  one  mile  of  the  fatal  three  was 
safely  passed.  The  apprehensions  of  the  notary  had  so 
far  subsided,  thai  he  even  suffered  the  poor  horse  to  walls 


1 10  THE  NOTAR  T  OF  PERIG  UEUX. 

up  hill ;  but  these  apprehensions  were  suddenly  revived 
again  with  tenfold  violence  by  a  sharp  pain  in  the  right 
side,  which  seemed  to  pierce  him  like  a  needle. 

"It  is  upon  me  at  last  ! "  groaned  the  fear-stricken  man. 
"  Heaven  be  merciful  to  me,  the  greatest  of  sinners ! 
And  must  I  die  in  a  ditch,  after  all  ?  He  !  get  up, — get 


up 


t » 


And  away  went  horse  and  rider  at  full  speed, — hurry- 
scurry, — up  hill  and  down, — panting  and  blowing  like  all 
possessed.  At  every  leap  the  pain  in  the  rider's  side 
seemed  to  increase.  At  first  it  was  a  little  point  like  the 
prick  of  a  needle, — then  it  spread  to  the  size  of  a  half- 
franc  piece, — then  covered  a  place  as  large  as  the  palm  of 
your  hand.  It  gained  upon  him  fast.  The  poor  man 
groaned  aloud  in  agony  ;  faster  and  faster  sped  the  horse 
over  the  frozen  ground, — farther  and  farther  spread  the 
pain  over  his  side.  To  complete  the  dismal  picture,  the 
storm  commenced, — snow  mingled  with  rain.  But  snow, 
and  rain,  and  cold  were  naught  to  him  ;  for,  though  his 
arms  and  legs  were  frozen  to  icicles,  he  felt  it  not ;  the 
fatal  symptom  was  upon  him  ;  he  was  doomed  to  die, — 
not  of  cold,  but  of  scarlet  fever  ! 

At  length,  he  knew  not  how,  more  dead  than  alive,  he 
reached  the  gate  of  the  city.  A  band  of  ill-bred  dogs, 
that  were  serenading  at  a  corner  of  the  street,  seeing  the 
notary  dash  by,  joined  in  the  hue  and  cry,  and  ran  bark 
ing  and  yelping  at  his  heels.  It  was  now  late  at  night, 
and  only  here  and  there  a  solitary  lamp  twinkled  from  an 
upper  story.  But  on  went  the  notary,  down  this  street 
and  up  that,  till  at  last  he  reached  his  own  door.  There 
was  a  light  in  his  wife's  bedchamber.  The  good  woman 
came  to  the  window,  alarmed  at  such  a  knocking,  and 
howling,  and  clattering  at  her  door  so  late  at  night ;  and 


THE  NOTAR  Y  OF  PERIG  UEUX.  Hi 

the  notary  was  too  deeply  absorbed  in  his  own  sorrows  to 
observe  that  the  lamp  cast  the  shadow  of  two  heads  os 
the  window-curtain. 

"  Let  me  in  !  let  me  in  !  Quick  !  quick  ! "  he  exclaimed, 
almost  breathless  from  terror  and  fatigue. 

"  Who  are  you,  that  come  to  disturb  a  lone  woman  at 
this  hour  of  the  night  ?"  cried  a  sharp  voice  from  above. 
"  Begone  about  your  business,  and  let  quiet  people  sleep." 

"  Oh,  diable,  diable  !  Come  down  and  let  me  in  !  I 
am  your  husband.  Don't  you  know  my  voice  ?  Quick, 
I  beseech  you  ;  for  I  am  dying  here  in  the  street !  " 

After  a  few  moments  of  delay  and  a  few  more  words  of 
parley,  the  door  was  opened,  and  the  notary  stalked  into 
his  domicile,  pale  and  haggard  in  aspect,  and  as  stiff  and 
straight  as  a  ghost.  Cased  from  head  to  heel  in  an 
armor  of  ice,  as  the  glare  of  the  lamp  fell  upon  him,  he 
looked  like  a  knight-errant  mailed  in  steel.  But  in  one 
place  his  armor  was  broken.  On  his  right  side  was  a  cir 
cular  spot,  as  large  as  the  crown  of  your  hat,  and  about  as 
black  ! 

"My  dear  wife  !"  he  exclaimed,  with  more  tenderness 
than  he  had  exhibited  for  many  years.  "  Reach  me  a  chair. 
My  hours  are  numbered.  I  am  a  dead  man  !  " 

Alarmed  at  these  exclamations,  his  wife  stripped  off  his 
overcoat.  Something  fell  from  beneath  it,  and  was 
dashed  to  pieces  on  the  hearth.  It  was  the  notary's  pipe  ! 
He  placed  his  hand  upon  his  side,  and,  lo  !  it  was  bare  to 
the  skin  !  Coat,  waistcoat,  and  linen  were  burnt  through 
and  through,  and  there  was  a  blister  on  his  side  as  large 
over  as  your  head  ! 

The  mystery  was  soon  explained,  symptom  and  all. 
The  notary  had  put  his  pipe  into  his  pocket  without 
knocking  out  the  ashes  !  And  so  my  story  ends. 


312  THE  NOTARY  OF  P&RIG UEUX, 

"  Is  that  all  ?"  asked  the  radical,,  when  the  story-tellel 
had  finished. 

"That  is  all." 

"Well,  what  does  your  story  go  to  prove  ?  " 

"  That  is  more  than  I  can  tell.  All  I  know  is  that  the 
story  is  true." 

"  And  did  he  die  ?  "  said  the  nice  little  man  in  gosling- 
green. 

"  Yes ;  he  died  afterwards,"  replied  the  story-teller, 
rather  annoyed  by  the  question. 

"  And  what  did  he  die  of  ?  "  continued  gosling-green, 
following  him  up. 

"What  did  he  die  of?"  winking  to  the  rest  of  the 
company  ;  "why,  he  died — of  a  sudden  I" 


THE  JOURNEY  INTO  SPAIN. 

A  Tissue  do  1'yver  quo  le  joly  temps  do  primavere  commence,  et  qu'on  voil 
arbres  verdoyer,  fleurs  espanouir,  et  qu'on  oit.  les  oisillons  chanter  en  toute  joie  e» 
doiilceur,  taut  quo  les  verts  bocagcs  ivtcntissent  de  leurs  son*  et  que  cceurs  tristc;' 
IHMIMI'S  y  dok'iis  sen  esjouissent,  s'emeuvent  a  delaisssur  deuil  et  toute  tristrssc, 
i-t  sc  parforcent  a  valoir  mieux. 

LA  PLAISANTE  HISTOIKE  DE  GUERIN  DE  MONGLAVE. 

Ql OFT-BREATHING  Spring!  how  many  pleasant 
^O  thoughts,  how  many  delightful  recollections,  does 
thy  name  awaken  in  the  mind  of  the  traveller  !  Whether 
he  has  followed  thee  by  the  banks  of  the  Loire  or  the 
G!  uadalqui ver,  or  traced  thy  footsteps  slowly  climbing 
the  sunny  slope  of  Alp  or  Apennine,  the  thought  of  thee 
shall  summon  up  sweet  visions  of  the  past,  and  thy 
golden  sunshine  and  soft  vapory  atmosphere  become  a 
portion  of  his  day-dreams  and  of  him.  Sweet  images  of 
thee,  and  scenes  that  have  oft  inspired  the  poet's  song, 
shall  mingle  in  his  recollections  of  the  past.  The  shoot 
ing  of  the  tender  leaf, — the  sweetness  and  elasticity  of 
the  air, — the  blue  sky, — the  fleet-drifting  cloud, — and 
the  flocks  of  wild  fowl  wheeling  in  long-drawn  phalanx 
through  the  air,  and  screaming  from  their  dizzy  height,— - 
all  these  shall  pass  like  a  dream  before  his  imagination, 

"  And  gently  o'er  his  memory  comes  at  times 
A  glimpse  of  joys  that  had  their  birth  in  thee, 
Like  a  brief  strain  of  some  forgotten  tune." 

It  was  at  the  opening  of  this  delightful  season  of  the 
year  that   I  passed  through  the  South  of  France,  and  took 
113  8 


114  THE  JOURNEY  INTO  SPAIN. 

the  road  of  St.  Jean  de  Luz  for  the  Spanish  frontier.  I 
left  Bordeaux  amid  all  the  noise  and  gayety  of  the  last 
scene  of  Carnival.  The  streets  and  public  walks  of  the 
city  were  full  of  merry  groups  in  masks, — at  every  comer 
crowds  were  listening  to  the  discordant  music  of  the  wan- 
doring  ballad-singer  ;  and  grotesque  figures,  mounted  on 
high  stilts,  and  dressed  in  the  garb  of  the  peasants  of  the 
Landes  of  Gascony,  were  stalking  up  and  down  like  so 
many  long-legged  cranes  ;  others  were  amusing  themselves 
with  the  tricks  and  grimaces  of  little  monkeys,  disguised 
like  little  men,  bowing  to  the  ladies,  and  figuring  away  in 
red  coats  and  ruffles  ;  and  here  and  there  a  band  of  chim 
ney-sweeps  were  staring  in  stupid  wonder  at  the  miracles 
of  a  showman's  box.  In  a  word,  all  was  so  full  of  mirth 
and  mcrrimake,  that  even  beggary  seemed  to  have  for 
gotten  that  it  was  wretched,  and  gloried  in  the  ragged 
masquerade  of  one  poor  holiday. 

To  this  scene  of  noise  and  gayety  succeeded  the  silence 
and  solitude  of  the  Landes  of  Gascony.  The  road  from 
Bordeaux  to  Bayonne  winds  along  through  immense  pine- 
forests  and  sandy  plains,  spotted  here  and  there  with  a 
dingy  little  hovel,  and  the  silence  is  interrupted  only  by 
the  dismal  hollow  roar  of  the  wind  among  the  melancholy 
and  majestic  pines.  Occasionally,  however,  the  way  is 
enlivened  by  a  market-town  or  a  straggling  village  ;  and  I 
still  recollect  the  feelings  of  delight  which  I  experienced, 
when,  just  after  sunset,  we  passed  through  the  romantic 
town  of  Eoquefort,  built  upon  the  sides  of  the  green  val 
ley  of  the  Douze,  which  has  scooped  out  a  verdant  hollow 
for  it  to  nestle  in,  amid  those  barren  tracts  of  sand. 

On  leaving  Bayonne,  the  scene  assumes  a  character 
of  greater  beauty  and  sublimity.  To  the  vast  forests  of 
the  Landes  of  Gascony  succeeds  a  scene  of  picturesque 


THE  JOUENEY  INTO  SPAIN.  115 

beauty,  delightful  to  the  traveller's  eye.  Before  him  rise 
the  snowy  Pyrenees, — a  long  line  of  undulating  hills, — 

' '  Bounded  afar  by  peak  aspiring  bold, 
Like  giant  capped  with  helm  of  burnished  gold." 

To  the  left,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  stretch  the  deli 
cious  valleys  of  the  Nive  and  Adour  ;  and  to  the  right  the 
sea  flashes  along  the  pebbly  margin  of  its  silver  beach, 
forming  a  thousand  little  bays  and  inlets,  or  comes  tum 
bling  in  among  the  cliffs  of  a  rock-bound  coast,  and  beats 
against  its  massive  barriers  with  a  distant,  hollow,  con 
tinual  roar. 

Should  these  pages  meet  the  eye  of  any  solitary  trav 
eller  who  is  journeying  into  Spain  by  the  road  I  here 
speak  of,  I  would  advise  him  to  travel  from  Bayonne  to 
St.  Jean  de  Luz  on  horseback.  At  the  gate  of  Bayonne 
he  will  find  a  steed  ready  caparisoned  for  him,  with  a 
dark -eyed  Basque  girl  for  his  companion  and  guide,  who 
is  to  sit  beside  him  upon  the  same  horse.  This  style  of 
travelling  is,  I  believe,  peculiar  to  the  Basque  provinces ; 
at  all  events,  I  have  seen  it  nowhere  else.  The  saddle  is 
constructed  with  a  large  frame-work  extending  on  each 
side,  and  covered  with  cushions  ;  and  the  traveller  and 
his  guide,  being  placed  on  the  opposite  extremities,  serve 
as  a  balance  to  each  other.  We  overtook  many  travellers 
mounted  in  this  way,  and  I  could  not  help  thinking  it  a 
mode  of  travelling  far  preferable  to  being  cooped  up  in  a 
diligence.  The  Basque  girls  are  generally  beautiful ;  and 
there  was  one  of  these  merry  guides  we  met  upon  the 
road  to  Bidart  whose  image  haunts  me  still.  She  had 
large  and  expressive  black  eyes,  teeth  like  pearls,  a  rich 
ami  sunburnt  complexion,  and  hair  of  a  glossy  blackness, 
parted  on  the  forehead,  and  falling  down  behind  in  3 


316  THE  JO  URNET  INTO  SPAIN. 

large  braid,  so  long  as  almost  to  touch  the  ground  with 
the  little  ribbon  that  confined  it  at  the  end.  She  wore 
the  common  dress  of  the  peasantry  of  the  South  of 
France,  and  a  large  gypsy  straw  hat  was  thrown  back 
over  her  shoulder,  and  tied  by  a  ribbon  about  her  neck. 
There  was  hardly  a  dusty  traveller  in  the  coach  who  did 
not  envy  her  companion  the  seat  he  occupied  beside  her. 

Just  at  nightfall  Ave  entered  the  town  of  St.  Jean  de 
Luz,  and  dashed  down  its  narrow  streets  at  full  gallop. 
The  little  madcap  postilion  cracked  his  knotted  whip  in 
cessantly,  and  the  sound  echoed  back  from  the  high  dingy 
walls  like  the  report  of  a  pistol.  The  coach-wheels  nearly 
touched  the  houses  on  each  side  of  us  ;  the  idlers  in  the 
street  jumped  right  and  left  to  save  themselves  ;  window- 
shutters  flew  open  in  all  directions ;  a  thousand  heads 
popped  out  from  cellar  and  upper  story  ;  "  Sacr-r-re 
matin  !  "  shouted  the  postilion, — and  we  rattled  on  like 
an  earthquake. 

St.  Jean  de  Luz  is  a  smoky  little  fishing-town,  situated 
on  the  low  grounds  at  the  mouth  of  the  Nivelle,  and  a 
bridge  connects  it  with  the  faubourg  of  Sibourne,  which 
stands  on  the  opposite  bank  of  the  river.  I  had  no  time, 
however,  to  note  the  peculiarities  of  the  place,  for  I  was 
Avhirled  out  of  it  with  the  same  speed  and  confusion  with 
which  I  had  been  whirled  in,  and  I  can  only  recollect  the 
sweep  of  the  road  across  the  Nivelle, — the  church  of  Si- 
bourne  by  the  water's  edge, — the  narrow  streets, — the 
smoky -looking  houses  with  red  window-shutters,  and  "a 
very  ancient  and  fish-like  smell." 

1  passed  by  moonlight  the  little  river  Bidasoa,  which 
forms  the  boundary  between  France  and  Spain  ;  and  when 
the  morning  broke,  found  myself  far  up  among  the  moun 
tains  of  San  Salvador,  the  most  westerly  links  of  the  great 


THE  JOURNEY  INTO  SPAIN.  117 

Pyrencan  chain.  The  mountains  around  me  were  nei 
ther  rugged  nor  precipitous,  but  they  rose  one  above  an 
other  in  a  long,  majestic  swell,  and  the  trace  of  the 
ploughshare  was  occasionally  visible  to  their  summits, 
They  seemed  entirely  destitute  of  trees  ;  and  as  the  sea 
son  of  vegetation  had  not  yet  commenced,  their  huge 
outlines  lay  black,  and  barren,  and  desolate  against  the 
.sky.  But  it  was  a  glorious  morning,  and  the  sun  rose  up 
into  a  cloudless  heaven,  and  poured  a  flood  of  gorgeous 
splendor  over  the  mountain  landscape,  as  if  proud  of  the 
realm  he  shone  upon.  The  scene  was  enlivened  by  the 
dashing  of  a  swollen  mountain-brook,  whose  course  we 
followed  for  miles  down  the  valley,  as  it  leaped  onward  to 
its  journey's  end,  now  breaking  into  a  white  cascade,  and 
now  foaming  and  chafing  beneath  a  rustic  bridge.  Now 
and  then  we  drove  through  a  dilapidated  town,  with  a 
group  of  idlers  at  every  corner,  wrapped  in  tattered  brown 
cloaks,  and  smoking  their  little  paper  cigars  in  the  sun  ; 
then  would  succeed  a  desolate  tract  of  country,  cheered 
only  by  the  tinkle  of  a  mule-bell,  or  the  song  of  a  mu 
leteer  ;  th^n  we  would  meet  a  solitary  traveller  mounted 
on  horseback,  and  \vrapped  in  the  ample  folds  of  his 
cloak,  with  a  gun  hanging  at  the  pommel  of  his  saddle. 
Occasionally,  too,  among  the  bleak  inhospitable  hills,  we 
I  >;  i  ~sed  a  rude  little  chapel,  with  a  cluster  of  ruined  cot 
tages  around  it ;  and  whenever  our  carriage  stopped  at  the 
relay,  or  loitered  slowly  up  the  hillside,  a  crowd  of  chil 
dren  would  gather  around  us,  with  little  images  and  ciu- 
cifixes  for  sale,  curiously  ornamented  with  ribbons  and 
'•its  of  tawdry  finery. 

A  day's  journey  from  the  frontier  brought  us  to  Yitoria, 
where  (he  diligence  stopped  for  the  night.  I  spent  the 
scanty  remnant  of  da\lighl  in  rambling  about  the  shveU 


118  THE  JOURNEY  INTO  SPAIN. 

of  the  city,  with  no  other  guide  than  the  whim  of  the 
moment.  Now  I  plunged  down  a  dark  and  narrow  alley, 
now  emerged  into  a  wide  street  or  a  spacious  market 
place,  and  now  aroused  the  drowsy  echoes  of  a  church  or 
cloister  with  the  sound  of  my  intruding  footsteps.  But  de 
scriptions  of  churches  and  public  squares  are  dull  and 
tedious  matters  for  those  readers  who  are  in  search  of 
amusement,  and  not  of  instruction  ;  and  if  any  one  has 
accompanied  me  thus  far  on  my  fatiguing  journey  towards 
the  Spanish  capital,  I  will  readily  excuse  him  from  the  toil 
of  an  evening  ramble  through  the  streets  of  Vitoiia. 

On  the  following  morning  we  left  Vitoria  long  before 
daybreak,  and  during  our  forenoon's  journey  the  pos 
tilion  drew  up  at  a  relay  on  the  southern  slope  of  the 
Sierra  de  San  Lorenzo,  in  the  province  of  Old  Castile. 
The  house  was  an  old,  dilapidated  tenement,  built  of 
rough  stone,  and  coarsely  plastered  upon  the  outside.  The 
tiled  roof  had  long  been  the  sport  of  wind  and  rain,  the 
motley  coat  of  plaster  was  broken  and  time-worn,  and  the 
whole  building  sadly  out  of  repair  ;  though  the  fanciful 
mouldings  under  the  eaves,  and  the  curiously  carved 
wood-work  that  supported  the  little  balcony  over  the 
principal  entrance,  spoke  of  better  days  gone  by.  The 
whole  building  reminded  me  of  a  dilapidated  Spanish 
Don,  down  at  the  heel  and  out  at  elbows,  but  with  here 
and  there  a  remnant  of  former  magnificence  peeping 
through  the  loopholes  of  his  tattered  cloak. 

A  wide  gateway  ushered  the  traveller  into  the  interior 
of  the  building,  and  conducted  him  to  a  low-roofed 
apartment,  paved  with  round  stones,  and  serving  both  as 
a  court-yard  and  a  stable.  It  seemed  to  be  a  neutral 
ground  for  man  and  beast, — a  little  republic,  where  horse 
and  rider  had  common  privileges,  and  mule  and  muleteer 


THE  JO  URNEY  INTO  SPAIN.  119 

lay  cheek  by  jowl.  In  one  corner  a  poor  jackass  was 
patiently  devouring  a  bundle  of  musty  straw, — in  another, 
its  master  lay  sound  asleep,  with  his  saddle-cloth  for  a 
pillow  ;  here  a  group  of  muleteers  were  quarrelling  over  a 
pack  of  dirty  cards, — and  there  the  village  barber,  with  a 
self-important  air,  stood  laving  the  Alcalde's  chin  from 
the  helmet  of  Mambrino.  On  the  wall,  a  little  taper- 
glimmered  feebly  before  an  image  of  St.  Anthony ;  di 
rectly  opposite  these  a  leathern  wine-bottle  hung  by  the 
neck  from  a  pair  of  ox-horns  ;  and  the  pavement  below 
w;is  covered  with  a  curious  medley  of  boxes,  and  bags, 
and  cloaks,  and  pack-saddles,  and  sacks  of  grain,  and 
skins  of  wine,  and  all  kinds  of  lumber. 

A  small  door  upon  the  right  led  us  into  the  inn-kitchen. 
It  was  a  room  about  ten  feet  square,  and  literally  all 
chimney ;  for  the  hearth  was  in  the  centre  of  the  floor, 
and  the  walls  sloped  upward  in  the  form  of  a  long,  nar 
row  pyramid,  with  an  opening  at  the  top  for  the  escape 
of  the  smoke.  Quite  round  this  little  room  ran  a  row  of 
benches,  upon  which  sat  one  or  two  grave  personages 
smoking  paper  cigars.  Upon  the  hearth  blazed  a  handful 
of  fagots,  whose  bright  flame  danced  merrily  among  a 
motley  congregation  of  pots  and  kettles,  and  a  long 
wreath  of  smoke  wound  lazily  up  through  the  huge  tunnel 
of  the  roof  above.  The  walls  were  black  with  soot,  and 
ornamented  with  sundry  legs  of  bacon  and  festoons  ol 
sausages  ;  and  as  there  were  no  windows  in  this  dingy 
abode,  the  only  light  which  cheered  the  darkness  within, 
came  flickering  from  the  fire  upon  the  hearth,  and  the 
smoky  sunbeams  that  peeped  down  the  long-necked 
chimney. 

I  had  not  been  long  seated  by  the  fire,  when  the  tink 
ling  of  mule-bells,  the  clatter  of  hoofs,  and  the  hoarse 


120  THE  JOURNEY  INTO  SPAIN. 

voice  of  a  muleteer,  in  the  outer  apartment,  announced 
the  arrival  of  new  guests.  A  few  moments  afterward 
the  kitchen-door  opened,  and  a  person  entered,  whose 
appearance  strongly  arrested  my  attention.  It  was  a  tall, 
athletic  figure  with  the  majestic  carriage  of  a  grandee, 
and  a  dark,  sunburnt  countenance,  that  indicated  an  age 
of  about  fifty  years.  His  dress  was  singular,  and  such  as 
I  had  not  before  seen.  He  wore  a  round  hat  with  wide, 
flapping  brim,  from  beneath  which  his  long,  black  hair 
hung  in  cnrls  upon  his  shoulders  ;  a  leather  jerkin,  with 
cloth  sleeves  descended  to  his  hips  ;  around  his  waist  was 
closely  buckled  a  leather  belt,  with  a  cartouch-box  on  one 
side  ;  a  pair  of  Marmeluke  pantaloons  of  black  serge  hung 
in  ample  folds  to  the  knees,  around  which  they  were 
closely  gathered  by  embroidered  garters  of  blue  silk  ;  and 
black  broadcloth  leggins,  buttoned  close  to  the  calves,  and 
strapped  over  a  pair  of  brown  leather  shoes,  completed 
the  singular  dress  of  the  stranger.  He  doffed  his  hat  as 
he  entered,  and  saluting  the  company  with  a  "  Dios 
gnarde  a  Ustedes,  cdballeros  "  (God  guard  you,  Gentle 
men),  took  a  seat  by  the  fire,  and  entered  into  conversa 
tion  with  those  around  him. 

As  my  curiosity  was  not  a  little  excited  by  the  peculiar 
dress  of  this  person,  I  inquired  of  a  travelling  companion, 
who  sat  at  my  elbow,  who  and  what  this  new-comer  was. 
From  him  I  learned  that  he  was  a  muleteer  of  the  Mara- 
gateria, — a  name  given  to  a  cluster  of  small  towns  which 
lie  in  the  mountainous  country  between  Astorga  and 
Villafranca,  in  the  western  corner  of  the  kingdom  of 
Leon. 

"Nearly  every  province  in  Spain,"  said  he,  "has  its 
peculiar  costume,  as  you  will  see,  when  you  have  advanced 
farther  into  our  country.  For  instance,  the  Catalonians 


THE  JOURNEY  INTO  SPAIN.  121 

wear  crimson  caps,  hanging  down  upon  the  shoulder  like 
a  sack  ;  wide  pantaloons  of  green  velvet,  long  enough  in 
the  waistband  to  cover  the  whole  breast  ;  and  a  little  strip 
of  a  jacket,  made  of  the  same  material,  and  so  short  as  tc 
bring  the  pocket  directly  under  the  armpit.  The  Valen- 
cians,  on  the  contrary,  go  almost  naked  :  a  linen  shirt, 
white  linen  trousers,  reaching  no  lower  than  the  knees, 
and  a  pair  of  coarse  leather  sandals  complete  their  simple 
garb  ;  it  is  only  in  mid- winter  that  they  indulge  in  the 
luxury  of  a  jacket.  The  most  beautiful  and  expensive 
costume,  however,  is  that  of  Andalusia ;  it  consists  of  a 
velvet  jacket,  faced  Avith  rich  and  various-colored  em 
broidery,  and  covered  with  tassels  and  silken  cord  ;  a 
waistcoat  of  some  gay  color  ;  a  silken  handkerchief  round 
the  neck,  and  a  crimson  sash  round  the  waist ;  breeches 
that  button  down  each  side  ;  gaiters  and  shoes  of  white 
leather  ;  and  a  handkerchief  of  bright-colored  silk  wound 
about  the  head  like  a  turban,  and  surmounted  by  a  velvet 
cap  or  a  little  round  hat,  with  a  wide  band,  and  an  abun 
dance  of  silken  loops  and  tassels.  The  Old  Castilians  are 
more  grave  in  their  attire  :  they  wear  a  leather  breastplate 
instead  of  a  jacket,  breeches  and  leggins,  and  a  montera 
c;i|i.  This  fellow  is  a  Maragato  ;  and  in  the  villages  of 
the  Maragateria  the  costume  varies  a  little  from  the  rest 
of  Leon  and  Castile." 

"If  he  is  indeed  a  Maragato,"  said  I,  jestingly,  "  who 
knows  but  he  may  be  a  descendant  of  the  muleteer  who 
behaved  so  naughtily  at  Cacabelos,  as  related  in  the  sec 
ond  chapter  of  the  veracious  history  of  Gil  Bias  de  Santil- 
lana?" 

"  i  Quien  sabe  ?  "  was  the  reply.  "  Notwithstanding 
the  pride  which  even  the  meanest  Castilian  feels  in 
counting  over  a  long  line  of  good-for-nothing  ancestors, 


123  THE  JOURNEY  INTO  SPAIN. 

the  science  of  genealogy  has  become  of  late  a  very  intri 
cate  study  in  Spain. " 

Here  our  conversation  was  cut  short  by  the  Mayoral  of 
the  diligence,  who  came  to  tell  us  that  the  mules  were 
waiting  ;  and  before  many  hours  had  elapsed,  we  were 
scrambling  through  the  square  of  the  ancient  city  of 
Burgos.  On  the  morrow  we  crossed  the  river  Duero  and 
the  Guadarrama  Mountains,  and  early  in  the  afternoon 
entered  the  "Heroica  Villa,"  of  Madrid,  by  the  Puertade 
Fuencarral. 


SPAIN. 

Santiago  y  cicrra  Espafia  ! 

SPANISH  WAK-CBT. 

IT  is  a  beautiful  morning  in  Juno  ;  — so  beautiful,  that 
I  almost  fancy  myself  in  Spain.  The  tesselated 
shadow  of  the  honey-suckle  lies  motionless  upon  my  floor, 
as  if  it  were  a  figure  in  the  carpet ;  and  through  the  open 
window  comes  the  fragrance  of  the  wild-brier  and  the 
mock-orange,  reminding  me  of  that  soft,  sunny  clime 
where  the  very  air  is  laden,  like  the  bee,  with  sweetness, 
and  the  south  wind 

"  Comes  over  gardens,  and  the  flowers 
That  kissed  it  are  betrayed." 

The  birds  are  carolling  in  the  trees,  and  their  shadows 
flit  across  the  window  as  they  dart  to  and  fro  in  the  sun 
shine  ;  while  the  murmur  of  the  bee,  the  cooing  of  doves 
from  the  eaves,  and  the  whirring  of  a  little  humming 
bird  that  has  its  nest  in  the  honeysuckle,  send  up  a  sound 
of  joy  to  meet  the  rising  sun.  How  like  the  climate  of 
the  South  !  How  like  a  summer  morning  in  Spain  ! 

My  recollections  of  Spain  are  of  the  most  lively  and 
delightful  kind.  The  character  of  the  soil  and  of  its  in 
habitants, — the  stormy  mountains  and  free  spirits  of  the 
North, — the  prodigal  luxuriance  and  gay  voluptuousness 
of  the  South, — the  history  and  traditions  of  the  past,  re 
sembling  more  the  fables  of  romance  than  the  solemn 
chronicle  of  events, — a  soft  and  yet  majestic  language 
123 


124  SPAIN. 

that  falls  like  martial  music  on  the  ear,  and  a  literature 
rich  in  the  attractive  lore  of  poetry  and  fiction, — these, 
but  not  these  alone,  are  my  reminiscences  of  Spain.  AVith 
these  I  recall  the  thousand  little  circumstances  and  enjoy~ 
ments  which  always  give  a  coloring  to  our  recollections 
of  the  past ;  the  clear  sky, — the  pure,  balmy  air, — the 
delicious  fruits  and  flowers, — the  wild- fig  and  the  aloe, 
the  palm  tree  and  the  olive  by  the  wayside, — all,  all  that 
makes  existence  so  joyous,  and  renders  the  sons  and  daugh 
ters  of  that  clime  the  children  of  impulse  and  sensation. 

As  I  write  these  words,  a  shade  of  sadness  steals  over 
me.  When  I  think  what  that  glorious  land  might  be, 
and  what  it  is, — what  nature  intended  it  should  be,  and 
what  man  has  made  it, — my  very  heart  sinks  within  me. 
My  mind  instinctively  reverts  from  the  degradation  of  the 
present  to  the  glory  of  the  past ;  or,  looking  forward  with 
strong  misgivings,  but  with  yet  stronger  hopes,  interro 
gates  the  future. 

The  burnished  armor  of  the  Cid  stands  in  the  archives 
of  the  royal  museum  of  Madrid,  and  there,  too,  is  seen 
the  armor  of  Ferdinand  and  of  Isabel,  of  Guzman  the 
Good  and  of  Gonzalo  de  Cordova,  and  other  early 
champions  of  Spain  ;  but  what  hand  shall  now  wield  the 
sword  of  the  Campeador,  or  lift  up  the  banner  of  Leon 
and  Castile  ?  The  ruins  of  Christian  castle  and  Moorish 
alcazar  still  look  forth  from  the  hills  of  Spain  ;  but 
where,  0  where  is  the  spirit  of  freedom  that  once  fired 
the  children  of  the  Goth  ?  Where  is  the  spirit  of  Ber 
nardo  del  Carpio,  and  Perez  de  Vargas,  and  Alonzo  de 
Aguilar  ?  Shall  it  forever  sleep  ?  Shall  it  never  again 
beat  high  in  the  hearts  of  their  degenerate  sons  ?  Shall 
the  descendants  of  Pelayo  bow  forever  beneath  an  iron 
yoke,  "like  cattle  whose  despair  is  dumb  ?" 


SPAIN.  125 

The  dust  of  the  Cid  lies  mingling  with  the  dust  of  Old 
Castile;  hut  his  spirit  is  not  buried  with  his  ashes.  It 
sleeps,  but  is  not  dead.  The  day  will  come,  when  the 
foot  of  the  tyrant  shall  be  shaken  from  (lie  neck  of  Spain  • 
when  a  brave  and  generous  people,  though  now  ignorant, 
degraded,  and  much  abused,  shall  "know  their  rights, 
and  knowing  dare  maintain."  But  I  am  no  political 
seer.  I  will  dwell  no  longer  on  this  theme. 

Of  the  national  character  of  Spain  I  have  brought 
away  this  impression  ;  that  its  prominent  traits  are  a  gen 
erous  pride  of  birth,  a  superstitious  devotion  to  the  dog 
mas  of  the  Church,  and  an  innate  dignity,  which  exhibits 
itself  even  in  the  common  and  evcry-day  employments  of 
life.  Castilian  pride  is  proverbial.  A  beggar  wraps  his 
tattered  cloak  around  him  with  all  the  dignity  of  a  lioman 
senator  ;  and  a  muleteer  bestrides  his  beast  of  burden  wil  h 
the  air  of  a  grandee. 

I  have  thought,  too,  that  there  was  a  tinge  of  sadness 
in  the  Spanish  character.  The  national  music  of  the  land 
is  remarkable  for  its  melancholy  tone  ;  and  at  times  the 
voice  of  a  peasant,  singing  amid  the  silence  and  solitude 
of  the  mountains,  falls  upon  the  ear  like  a  funeral  chant. 
Even  a  Spanish  holiday  wears  a  look  of  sadness, — a  cir 
cumstance  which  some  writers  attribute  to  the  cruel  and 
overbearing  spirit  of  the  municipal  laws.  "On  (ho 
greatest  festivals,"  says  Sovellanos,  "instead  of  (hat 
boisterous  merriment  and  noise  which  should  bespeak 
the  joy  of  the  inhabitants,  there  reigns  throughout  (he 
streets  and  market-places  a  slothful  inactivity,  a  gloomy 
stillness,  which  cannot  be  remarked  without  mingled 
emotions  of  surprise  and  pity.  The  few  persons  who 
leave  th?ir  houses  seem  to  be  driven  from  them  by  list- 
lessness,  and  dragged  as  far  as  the  threshold,  the  market, 


126  SPAIN. 

or  the  church-door  ;  there,  muffled  in  their  cloaks,  lean 
ing  against  a  corner,  seated  on  a  bench,  or  lounging  to 
and  fro,  without  object,  aim,  or  purpose,  they  pass  their 
hours,  their  whole  evenings,  without  mirth,  recreation, 
or  amusement.  When  you  add  to  this  picture  the  drear 
iness  and  filth  of  the  villages,  the  poor  and  slovenly  dress 
of  the  inhabitants,  the  gloominess  and  silence  of  their  air, 
the  laziness,  the  want  of  concert  and  union  so  striking 
everywhere,  who  but  would  be  astonished,  who  but  would 
be  afflicted  by  so  mournful  a  phenomenon  ?  This  is  not, 
indeed,  the  place  to  expose  the  errors  which  conspire  to 
produce  it  ;  but,  whatever  those  errors  may  be,  one  point 
is  clear, — that  they  are  all  to  be  found  in  the  laws  ! "  * 

Of  the  same  serious,  sombre  character  is  the  favorite 
national  sport, — the  bull-fight.  It  is  a  barbarous  amuse 
ment,  but  of  all  others  the  most  exciting,  the  most  spirit- 
stirring  ;  and  in  Spain,  none  so  popular.  "  If  Rome  lived 
content  with  bread  and  arms,"  says  the  author  I  have 
just  quoted,  in  a  spirited  little  discourse  entitled  Pan  y 
Toros,  "Madrid  lives  content  with  bread  and  bulls." 

Shall  I  describe  a  Spanish  bull-fight  ?  No.  It  has 
been  so  often  and  so  well  described  by  other  pens  that 
mine  shall  not  undertake  it,  though  it  is  a  tempting 
theme.  I  cannot,  however,  refuse  myself  the  pleasure  of 
quoting  here  a  few  lines  from  one  of  the  old  Spanish  bal 
lads  upon  this  subject.  It  is  entitled  "The  Bull-fight  of 
Ganzul."  The  description  of  £he  bull,  which  is  con 
tained  in  the  passage  I  here  extract,  is  drawn  with  a 
master's  hand.  It  is  a  paraphrase — not  a  translation — • 
by  Mr  Lockhart. 

*  Informe  dado  a  la  Real  Academia  de  Historia  sobre  Juegos» 
Espectaculos,  y  Diversiones  Publicas. 


SPAIN.  127 

"  From  Guadiana  comes  he  not,  he  comes  not  from  Xenil, 
From  Guadalarif  of  the  plain,  nor  Barves  of  the  hill  ; 
But  where  from  out  the  forest  burst  Xarama's  waters  clear, 
Beneath  the  oak-trees  was  he  nursed,  this  proud  and  stately 
steer. 

'-'  Dark  is  his  hide  on  either  side,  but  the  blood  within  doth  boil, 
And  the  dun  hide  glows,  as  if  on  fire,  as  he  paws  to  the  turmoil. 
His  eyes  are  jet,  and  they  are  set  in  crystal  rings  of  snow  ; 
But  now  they  stare  with  one  red  glare  of  brass  upon  the  foe. 

"  Upon  the  forehead  of  the  bull  the  horns  stand  close  and  near, 
From  out  the  broad  and  wrinkled  skull  like  daggers  they  appear  ; 
His  neck  is  massy,  like  the  trunk  of  some  old,  knotted  tree, 
Whereon  the  monster's  shaggy  mane,  like  billows  curled,  ye  see. 

"  His  legs  are  short,  his  hams  are  thick,  his  hoofs  are  black  as 

night ; 

Like  a  strong  flail  he  holds  his  tail,  in  fierceness  of  his  might  ; 
Like  something  molten  out  of  iron,  or  hewn  from  forth  the  rock. 
Harpado  of  Xarama  stands,  to  bide  the  Alcayde's  shock. 

"  Now  stops  the  drum, — close,  close  they  come  ;  thrice  meet  and 

thrice  give  back  ; 

The  white  foam  of  Harpado  lies  on  the  charger's  breast  of  black  ; 
The  white  foam  of  the  charger  on  Harpado's  front  of  dun  ; — 
Once  more  advance  upon  his  lance, — once  more,  thou  fearless 
one  ! " 

There  are  various  circumstances  closely  connected  with 
the  train  of  thought  I  have  here  touched  upon ;  but  I 
forbear  to  mention  them,  for  fear  of  drawing  out  this  in 
troductory  chapter  to  too  great  a  length.  Some  of  them 
will  naturally  find  a  place  hereafter.  Meanwhile  let  us 
turn  the  leaf  to  a  new  chapter,  and  to  subjects  of  a  live 
lier  nature. 


A  TAILOE'S  DEAWEE. 

Nedyls.  thrcde,  thymbell,  shers, 
And  all  suche  knackes. 

THB  FOUK  Pf, 

I. 

A  TAILOE'S  drawer,  quotha  ? 
Yes  ;  a  tailor's  drawer.  Sooth  to  say  it  is  rather 
a  quaint  rubric  for  a  chapter  in  the  pilgrim's  breviary ; 
albeit  it  well  befits  the  motley  character  of  the  following 
pages.  It  is  a  title  which  the  Spaniards  give  to  a  des 
ultory  discourse,  wherein  various  and  discordant  themes 
are  touched  upon,  and  which  is  crammed  full  of  little 
shreds  and  patches  of  erudition  ;  and  certainly  it  is  not 
inappropriate  to  a  chapter  whose  contents  are  of  every 
shape  and  hue,  and  "do  no  more  adhere  and  keep  pace 
together  than  the  hundredth  psalm  to  the  tune  of  Green 
Sleeves." 

IT. 

IT  is  recorded  in  the  adventures  of  Gil  Bias  de  Santil- 
lana,  that,  when  this  renowned  personage  first  visited  the 
city  of  Madrid,  he  took  lodgings  at  the  house  of  Mateo 
Melandez,  in  the  Puerta  del  Sol.  In  choosing  a  place  of 
abode  in  the  Spanish  court,  I  followed,  as  far  as  practica 
ble,  this  illustrious  example ;  but,  as  the  kind-hearted 
Mateo  had  been  long  gathered  to  his  fathers,  I  was  con 
tent  to  take  up  my  residence  in  the  hired  house  of  Val 
entin  Gonzalez,  at  the  foot  of  the  Calle  de  la  Montera. 
128 


A  TAILOR'S  DRA  WER.  129 

My  apartments  were  in  the  third  story,  above  the  dust, 
though  not  beyond  the  rattle,  of  the  street ;  and  my  bal 
conies  looked  down  into  the  Puerta  del  Sol,  the  heart  of 
Madrid,  through  which  circulates  the  living  current  of 
its  population  at  least  once  every  twenty-four  hours. 

The  Puerta  del  Sol  is  a  public  square,  from  which  di 
verge  the  five  principal  streets  of  the  metropolis.  It  is 
the  great  rendezvous  of  grave  and  gay, — of  priest  and  lay 
man, — of  gentle  and  simple,— the  mart  of  business  and 
of  gossip, — the  place  where  the  creditor  seeks  his  debtor, 
where  the  lawyer  seeks  his  client,  where  the  stranger 
seeks  amusement,  where  the  friend  seeks  his  friend,  and 
the  foe  his  foe  ;  where  the  idler  seeks  the  sun  in  winter, 
and  the  shade  in  summer,  and  the  busybody  seeks  the 
daily  news,  and  picks  up  the  crumbs  of  gossip  to  fly  away 
with  them  in  his  beak  to  the  terMlia  of  Dona  Paquita ! 

Tell  me,  ye  who  have  sojourned  in  foreign  lands,  and 
know  in  what  bubbles  a  traveller's  happiness  consists, — is 
it  not  a  blessing  to  have  your  window  overlook  a  scene 
like  this  ? 


ill. 


THERE, — take  that  chair  upon  the  balcony,  and  let  us 
look  down  upon  the  busy  scene  beneath  us.  What  a  con 
tinued  roar  the  crowded  thoroughfare  sends  up  !  Though 
three  stories  high,  we  can  hardly  hear  the  sound  of  our 
own  voices  !  The  London  cries  are  whispers,  when  com 
pared  with  the  cries  of  Madrid. 

See, — yonder  stalks  a  gigantic  peasant  of  New  Cas 
tile,  with  a  montera  cap,  brown  jacket  and  breeches,  and 
coarse  blue  stockings,  forcing  his  way  through  the  crowd, 
and  leading  a  donkey  laden  with  charcoal,  whose  sono* 
9 


130  A  TAILOR'S  DRAWER. 

rous  bray  is  in  unison  with  the  harsh  voice  of  his  master, 
Close  at  his  elbow  goes  a  rosy-cheeked  damsel,  selling  cal 
ico.  She  is  an  Asturian  from  the  mountains  of  Santan- 
der.  How  do  you  know  ?  By  her  short  yellow  petticoats, 
— her  blue  bodice, — her  coral  necklace  and  ear-rings. 
Through  the  middle  of  the  square  struts  a  peasant  of  Old 
Castile,  with  his  yellow  leather  jerkin  strapped  about  his 
waist, — his  brown  leggins  and  his  blue  garters, — driving 
before  him  a  flock  of  gabbling  turkeys,  and  crying,  at  the 
top  of  his  voice,  "Pao,  pao,  pavitos,  puos!  "  Next  comes 
a  Valencian,  with  his  loose  linen  trousers  and  sandal 
shoon,  holding  a  huge  sack  of  watermelons  upon  his 
shoulder  with  his  left  hand,  and  with  his  right  balancing 
high  in  air  a  specimen  of  the  luscious  fruit,  upon  which  is 
perched  a  little  pyramid  of  the  crimson  pulp,  while  he 
tempts  the  passers-by  with  "A  cola,  y  calando ;  una 
sand'ia  vendo-o-o.  Si  esto  essangre!"  (By  the  slice,— 
come  and  try  it, — watermelon  for  sale.  This  is  the  real 
blood  !)  His  companion  near  him  has  a  pair  of  scales 
thrown  over  his  shoulder,  and  holds  both  arms  full  of 
muskmelons.  He  chimes  into  the  harmonious  ditty  with 
"Melo—melo-o-o—meloticitos;  aqui  estd  el  azticar !  " 
(Melons,  melons ;  here  is  the  sugar !)  Behind  them 
creeps  a  slow-moving  Asturian,  in  heavy  wooden  shoes, 
crying  watercresses ;  and  a  peasant  woman  from  the 
Guadarama  Mountains,  with  a  montera  cocked  up  in 
front,  and  a  blue  kerchief  tied  under  her  chin,  swings  in 
each  hand  a  bunch  of  live  chickens, — that  hang  by  the 
claws,  head  downwards,  fluttering,  scratching,  crow 
ing  with  all  their  might,  while  the  good  woman  tries  to 
drown  their  voices  in  the  discordant  cry  of  "jQuien  me 
compra  un  gallo, — un  par  de  gallinas  9  "  (Who  buys  a 
cock,—  a  brace  of  hens, — who  buys  ?)  That  tall  fellow 


A  TAILOR'S  DEAWEB.  131 

In  blue,  with  a  pot  of  flowers  upon  his  shoulder,  is  a  wag, 
beyond  all  dispute.  See  how  cunningly  he  cocks  his  eye 
up  at  us,  and  cries,  "  Si  yo  tuviera  balcon  !  "  (If  I  only 
had  a  balcony  !  " 

What  next  ?  A  Manchego  with  a  sack  of  oil  under  his 
arm ;  a  Gallego  with  a  huge  water-jar  upon  his  shoulders  ; 
an  Italian  pedler  with  images  of  saints  and  madonnas  :  a 
razor-grinder  with  his  wheel ;  a  mender  of  pots  and  ket 
tles,  making  music,  as  he  goes,  with  a  shovel  and  a  fry 
ing-pan  ;  and,  in  fine,  a  noisy,  patchwork,  ever-changing 
crowd,  whose  discordant  cries  mingle  with  the  rumbling 
of  wheels,  the  clatter  of  hoofs,  and  the  clang  of  church- 
bells  ;  and  make  the  Puerta  del  Sol,  at  certain  hours  of 
the  day,  like  a  street  in  Babylon  the  Great. 

IV. 

CHITON  !  A  beautiful  girl,  with  flaxen  hair,  blue  eyes, 
and  the  form  of  a  fairy  in  a  midsummer  night's  dream,  has 
just  stepped  out  on  the  balcony  beneath  us  !  See  howco- 
quettishly  she  crosses  her  arms  upon  the  balcony,  thrusts 
her  dainty  little  foot  through  the  bars,  and  plays  with  her 
slipper  !  She  is  an  Andalusian,  from  Malaga.  Her 
brother  is  a  bold  dragoon,  and  wears  a  long  sword  ;  so  be 
ware  !  and  "let  not  the  creaking  of  shoes  and  the  rustling 
of  silks  betray  thy  poor  heart  to  woman."  Her  mother 
is  a  dowdy  lady,  "fat  and  forty"  ;  eats  garlic  in  her 
salad,  and  smokes  cigars.  But  mind  !  that  is  a  secret  j  1 
tell  it  to  you  in  confidence. 

V. 

THE  following  little  ditty  I  translate  from  the  Spanish. 
It  is  as  delicate  as  a  dew-drop. 


132  A  TAILORS  DRA  WER. 

She  is  a  maid  of  artless  grace, 
Gentle  in  form,  and  fair  of  face. 

Tell  me,  thou  ancient  mariner, 

That  sailest  on  the  sea, 
If  ship,  or  sail,  or  evening  star 

Be  half  so  fair  as  she ! 

Tell  me,  thou  gallant  cavalier,      » 

Whose  shining  arms  I  see, 
If  steed,  or  sword,  or  battle-field 

Be  half  so  fair  as  she ! 

Tell  me,  thou  swain,  that  guard'st  thy  flock 

Beneath  the  shadowy  tree, 
If  flock,  or  vale,  or  mountain-ridge 

Be  half  so  fair  as  she  I 

VI. 

A  MILLER  has  just  passed  by,  covered  with  flour  from  head 
to  foot,  and  perched  upon  the  tip  end  of  a  little  donkey, 
crying  "  Arre  borrico!"  and  at  every  cry  swinging  a 
cudgel  in  his  hand,  and  giving  the  ribs  of  the  poor  beast 
what  in  the  vulgar  dialect  is  called  a  cachiporrazo.  I  could 
not  help  laughing,  though  I  felt  provoked  with  the  fellow 
for  his  cruelty.  The  truth  is,  I  have  great  esteem  for  a 
jackass.  His  meekness,  and  patience,  and  long-suffering 
are  very  amiable  qualities,  and,  considering  his  situation, 
worthy  of  all  praise.  In  Spain,  a  donkey  plays  as  con 
spicuous  a  part  as  a  priest  or  village  alcalde.  There 
would  be  no  getting  along  without  him.  And  yet,  who  so 
beaten  and  abused  as  he  ? 

VII. 

HERE  comes  a  gay  gallant,  with  white  kid  gloves.  * 


A  lAILOKS  DEA  WEM.  133 

quizzing-glass,  a  black  cane,  with  a  white  ivory  apple, 
and  a  little  hat,  cocked  pertly  on  one  side  of  his  head. 
He  is  an  exquisite  fop,  and  a  great  lady's  man.  You  will 
always  find  him  on  the  Prado  at  sunset,  when  the  crowd 
and  dust  are  thickest,  ogling  through  his  glass,  flourish.' 
ing  his  cane,  and  humming  between  his  teeth  some 
favorite  air  of  the  Semiramis,  or  the  Barber  of  Seville. 
He  is  a  great  amateur,  and  patron  of  the  Italian  Opera, 
— beats  time  with  his  cane, — nods  his  head,  and  cries 
Bravo! — and  fancies  himself  in  love  with  the  Prima 
Donna.  The  height  of  his  ambition  is  to  be  thought  the 
gay  Lothario, — the  gallant  Don  Cortejo  of  his  little 
sphere.  He  is  a  poet  withal,  and  daily  besieges  the 
heart  01  the  cruel  Dona  Inez  with  sonnets  and  madrigals. 
She  turns  a  deaf  ear,  to  his  song,  and  is  inexorable  : — 

"  Mas  que  no  sea  mas  piadosa 
A  dos  cscudos  en  prosa, 
No  puede  ser." 

VIII. 

WHAT  a  contrast  between  this  personage  and  the  sal 
low,  emaciated  being  who  is  now  crossing  the  street  !  It 
is  a  barefooted  Carmelite, — a  monk  of  an  austere  order, 
— wasted  by  midnight  vigils  and  long  penance.  Absti 
nence  is  written  on  that  pale  cheek,  and  the  bowed  head 
and  downcast  eye  are  in  accordance  with  the  meek  pro 
fession  of  a  mendicant  brotherhood. 

What  is  this  world  to  thee,  thou  man  of  penitence  and 
prayer  ?  What  has  thou  to  do  with  all  this  busy,  turbu 
lent  scene  about  thee, — with  all  the  noise,  and  gayety, 
and  splendor  of  this  thronged  city  ?  Nothing.  The 
wide  world  gives  thee  nothing,  save  thy  daily  crust. 


134  A  TAILORS  DRAWER. 

thy  crucifix,  thy  convent-cell,  thy  pallet  of  straw  !  Pil- 
grim  of  heaven  !  thou  hast  no  home  on  earth.  Thou  art 
journeying  onward  to  "a  house  not  made  with  hands"  ; 
and  like  the  first  apostles  of  thy  faith,  thou  takest  neither 
gold,  nor  silver,  nor  brass,  nor  scrip  for  thy  journey. 
Thou  hast  shut  thy  heart  to  the  endearments  of  earthly 
love, — thy  shoulder  beareth  not  the  burden  with  thy 
fellow-man, — in  all  this  vast  crowd  thou  hast  no  friends,  no 
hopes,  no  sympathies.  Thou  standest  aloof  from  man, — 
and  art  thou  nearer  God  ?  I  know  not.  Thy  motives, 
thy  intentions,  thy  desires  are  registered  in  heaven.  I 
am  thy  fellow-man, — and  not  thy  judge. 

"Who  is  the  greater?"  says  the  German  moralist; 
"the  wise  man  who  lifts  himself  above  the  storms  of 
time,  and  from  aloof  looks  down  upon  them,  and  yet 
takes  no  part  therein, — or  he  who,  from  the  height  of 
quiet  and  repose,  throws  himself  boldly  into  the  battle- 
tumult  of  the  world  ?  Glorious  is  it,  when  the  eagle 
through  the  beating  tempest  flies  into  the  bright  blue 
heaven  upward  ;  but  far  more  glorious,  when,  poising  in 
the  blue  sky  over  the  black  storm-abyss,  he  plunges  down 
ward  to  his  aerie  on  the  cliff,  where  cower  his  unfledged 
brood,  and  tremble." 

IX. 

SULTRY  grows  the  day,  and  breathless  !  The  lately 
crowded  street  is  silent  and  deserted, — hardly  a  footfall, 
— hardly  here  and  there  a  solitary  figure  stealing  along  in 
the  narrow  strip  of  shade  beneath  the  eaves  !  Silent,  too, 
and  deserted  is  the  Puerta  del  Sol ;  so  silent,  that  even  at 
this  distance  the  splashing  of  its  fountain  is  distinctly 
audible, — so  deserted,  that  not  a  living  thing  is  visible 


A  TAILOR'S  DRAWEE.  13& 

there,  save  the  outstretched  and  athletic  form  of  a  Grali- 
cian  water-carrier,  who  lies  asleep  upon  the  pavement  ia 
the  cool  shadow  of  the  fountain  !  There  is  not  air  enough 
to  stir  the  leaves  of  the  jasmine  upon  the  balcony,  or  break 
the  thin  column  of  smoke  that  issues  from  the  cigar  of 
Don  Diego,  master  of  the  noble  Spanish  tongue,  y  hombre 
demuclws  dinyolondangos.  He  sits  bolt  upright  between 
the  window  and  the  door,  with  the  collar  of  his  snuff- 
colored  frock  thrown  back  upon  his  shoulders,  and  his 
toes  turned  out  like  a  dancing-master,  poring  over  the 
Diario  de  Madrid,  to  learn  how  high  the  thermometer 
rose  yesterday, — what  patron  saint  has  a  festival  to-day,— 
and  at  what  hour  to-morrow  the  "  King  of  Spain,  Jerusa 
lem,  and  the  Canary  Islands  "  will  take  his  departure  for 
the  gardens  of  Aranjuez. 

You  have  a  proverb  in  your  language,  Don  Diego,  which 
says, — 

"  Despues  de  comer 
Ni  un  sobrescrito  leer  " ; — 

after  dinner  read  not  even  the  superscription  of  a  letter. 
I  shall  obey,  and  indulge  in  the  exquisite  luxury  of  a 
siesta.  I  confess  that  I  love  this  after-dinner  nap.  If  I 
have  a  gift,  a  vocation  for  anything,  it  is  for  sleeping.  A 
child  might  envy  me,  I  sleep  so  calmly ;  and  from  my 
heart  I  can  say  with  honest  Sancho,  "  Blessed  be  the  man 
that  first  invented  sleep  ! "  In  a  sultry  clime,  too,  where 
the  noontide  heat  unmans  you,  and  cool  starry  night  seems 
made  for  anything  but  slumber,  I  am  willing  to  barter  an 
hour  or  two  of  intense  daylight  for  an  hour  or  two  of  tran 
quil,  lovely,  dewy  night ! 

Therefore,  Don  Diego,  hasta  la  vista  ! 


136  A  TAILOR'S  DRAWER. 

X. 

IT  is  evening  ;  the  day  is  gone  ;  fast  gather  and  deepen 
the  shades  of  twilight !  In  the  words  of  a  German  alle 
gory,  "  The  babbling  day  has  touched  the  hem  of  night's 
garment,  and,  weary  and  still,  drops  asleep  in  her  bosom." 

The  city  awakens  from  its  slumber.  The  convent-bells 
ring  solemnly  and  slow.  The  streets  are  thronged  again. 
Once  more  I  hear  the  shrill  cry,  the  rattling  wheel,  the 
murmur  of  the  crowd.  The  blast  of  a  trumpet  sounds 
from  the  Puerta  del  Sol, — then  the  tap  of  a  drum ;  a 
mounted  guard  opens  the  way, — the  crowd  doff  their  hats, 
and  the  king  sweeps  by  in  a  gilded  coach  drawn  by  six 
horses,  and  followed  by  a  long  train  of  uncouth,  anti 
quated  vehicles  drawn  by  mules. 

The  living  tide  now  sets  towards  the  Prado,  and  the 
beautiful  gardens  of  the  Eetiro.  Beautiful  are  they  at 
this  magic  hour.  Beautiful,  with  the  almond-tree  in  blos 
som,  with  the  broad  green  leaves  of  the  sycamore  and  the 
chestnut,  with  the  fragrance  of  the  orange  and  the  lemon, 
with  the  beauty  of  a  thousand  flowers,  with  the  soothing 
calm  and  the  dewy  freshness  of  evening  ! 

XI. 

I  LOVE  to  linger  on  the  Prado  till  the  crowd  is  gone 
and  the  night  far  advanced.  There  musing  and  alone  I 
sit,  and  listen  to  the  lulling  fall  of  waters  in  their  marble 
fountains,  and  watch  the  moon  as  it  rises  over  the  gardens 
of  the  Eetiro,  brighter  than  a  northern  sun.  The  beauti 
ful  scene  lies  half  in  shadow,  half  in  light, — almost  a  fairy 
land.  Occasionally  the  sound  of  a  guitar,  or  a  distant 
voice,  breaks  in  upon  my  revery.  Then  the  form  of  a 
monk,  from  the  neighboring  convent,  sweeps  by  me  like 


A  TAILORS  DRAWER.  137 

a  shadow,  and  disappears  in  the  gloom  of  the  leafy  avenues ; 
and  far  away  from  the  streets  of  the  city  comes  the  voice 
of  the  watchman  telling  the  midnight  hour. 

Lovely  art  thou,  0  Night,  beneath  the  skies  of  Spain 
Day,  panting  with  heat,  and  laden  with  a  thousand  cares, 
toils  onward  like  a  beast  of  burden  ;  but  Night,  calm,  si 
lent,  holy  Night,  is  a  ministering  angel  that  cools  with 
its  dewy  breath  the  toil-heated  brow  ;  and,  like  the  Bo- 
man  sisterhood,  stoops  down  to  bathe  the  pilgrim's  feet. 
How  grateful  is  the  starry  twilight !  How  grateful  the 
gentle  radiance  of  the  moon  !  How  grateful  the  delicious 
coolness  of  "  the  omnipresent  and  deep-breathing  air  !" 
Lovely  art  thou,  0  Night,  beneath  the  skies  of  -Spain  ! 


ANCIENT   SPANISH  BALLADS. 

I  love  a  ballad  hut  even  too  well,  if  it  be  doleful  matter  merrily  set  down,  or» 
very  pleasant  thing  indeed,  and  sung  lamentably. 

WINTER'S  TALE. 

HOW  universal  is  the  love  of  poetry  !     Every  nation 
has  its  popular  songs,  the  offspring  of  a  credulous 
simplicity  and  an  unschooled  fancy.     The  peasant  of  the 
North,  as  he  sits  by  the  evening  fire,  sings  the  tradition 
ary  ballad  to  his  children, 

"  Nor  wants  he  gleeful  tales,  while  round 
The  nut-brown  bowl  doth  trot." 

The  peasant  of  the  South,  as  lie  lies  at  noon  in  the  shade 
of  the  sycamore,  or  sits  by  his  door  in  the  evening  twi 
light,  sings  his  amorous  lay,  and  listlessly, 

"  On  hollow  quills  of  oaten  straw, 
He  pipeth  melody." 

The  muleteer  of  Spain  carols  with  the  early  lark,  amid 
the  stormy  mountains  of  his  native  land.  The  vintager 
of  Sicily  has  his  evening  hymn  ;  the  fisherman  of  Naples 
his  boat-song  ;  the  gondolier  of  Venice  his  midnight  ser 
enade.  The  goatherd  of  Switzerland  and  the  Tyrol, — 
the  Carpathian  boor, — the  Scotch  Highlander, — the  Eng 
lish  ploughboy,  singing  as  he  drives  his  team  afield, — 
peasant, — serf, — slave, — all,  all  have  their  ballads  and 
traditionary  songs.  Music  is  the  universal  language  of 
mankind, — poetry  their  universal  pastime  and  delight. 
138 


ANCIENT  SPANISH  BALLADS.  139 

The  ancient  ballads  of  Spain  hold  a  prominent  rank  in 
her  literary  history.  Their  number  is  truly  astonishing, 
and  may  well  startle  the  most  enthusiastic  lover  of  popu 
lar  song.  The  Romancero  Ge?ieral*  contains  upwards  of 
a  thousand  ;  and  though  upon  many  of  these  may  justly 
be  bestowed  the  encomium  which  honest  Izaak  Walton 
pronounces  upon  the  old  English  ballad  of  the  Passionate 
Shepherd — "old-fashioned  poetry,  but  choicely  good," — 
yet,  as  a  Avhole,  they  are,  perhaps,  more  remarkable  for 
their  number  than  for  their  beauty.  Every  great  historic 
event,  every  marvellous  tradition,  has  its  popular  ballad. 
Don  Roderick,  Bernardo  del  Carpio,  and  the  Cid  Campe- 
ador  are  not  more  the  heroes  of  ancient  chronicle  than  of 
ancient  song  ;  and  the  imaginary  champions  of  Christen 
dom,  the  twelve  peers  of  Charlemagne,  have  found  an 
historian  in  the  wandering  ballad-singer  no  less  authentic 
than  the  good  Archbishop  Turpin. 

Most  of  these  ancient  ballads  had  their  origin  during 
the  dominion  of  the  Moors  in  Spain.  Many  of  them, 
doubtless,  are  nearly  as  old  as  the  events  they  celebrate  ; 
though  in  their  present  form  the  greater  part  belong  to 
the  fourteenth  century.  The  language  in  which  they 
are  now  preserved  indicates  no  higher  antiquity ;  but 
who  shall  say  how  long  they  have  been  handed  down  by 
tradition,  ere  they  were  taken  from  the  lips  of  the  wan 
dering  minstrel,  and  recorded  in  a  more  permanent  form  ? 

The  seven  centuries  of  the  Moorish  sovereignty  in  Spain 
are  the  heroic  ages  of  her  history  and  her  poetry.  What 
the  warrior  achieved  with  his  sword  the  minstrel  pub 
lished  in  his  song.  The  character  of  those  ages  is  seen  in 

*  Romancero  General,  en  que  se  contiene  todos  los  Romances  ^u» 
andan  impresos.  4to.  Madrid,  1604. 


140  ANCIENT  SPANISH  BALLADS. 

the  character  of  their  literature.  History  casts  its  shadow 
fur  into  the  land  of  song.  Indeed,  the  most  prominent 
characteristic  of  the  ancient  Spanish  ballads  is  their  war 
like  spirit.  They  shadow  forth  the  majestic  lineaments 
of  the  warlike  ages  ;  and  through  every  line  breathes  a 
high  and  peculiar  tone  of  chivalrous  feeling.  It  is  not 
the  piping  sound  of  peace,  but  a  blast, — a  loud,  long- 
blast  from  the  war-horn, — 

"A  trump  with  a  stern  breath, 
Which  is  cleped  the  trump  of  death." 

And  with  this  mingles  the  voice  of  lamentation, — the 
equiem  for  the  slain,  with  a  melancholy  sweetness  : — 

"  Rio  Verde,  Rio  Verde  ! 

Many  a  corpse  is  bathed  in  thee, 

Both  of  Moors  and  eke  of  Christians, 

Slain  with  swords  most  cruelly. 

"  And  thy  pure  and  crystal  waters 

Dappled  are  with  crimson  gore  ; 
For  between  the  Moors  and  Christians 
Long  has  been  the  fight  and  sore. 

"  Dukes  and  counts  fell  bleeding  near  thee, 

Lords  of  high  renown  were  slain, 
Perished  many  a  brave  hidalgo 
Of  the  noblemen  of  Spain." 

Another  prominent  characteristic  of  these  ancient  bal 
lads  is  their  energetic  and  beautiful  simplicity.  A  great 
historic  event  is  described  in  the  fewest  possible  words  ; 
there  is  no  ornament,  no  artifice.  The  poet's  intention 
was  to  narrate,  not  to  embellish.  It  is  truly  wonderful 
to  observe  what  force,  and  beauty,  and  dramatic  power 
are  given  to  the  old  romances  by  this  single  circumstance. 


ANCIENT  SPANISH  BALLADS.  141 

When  Bernardo  del  Carpio  leads  forth  his  valiant  Leonese 
against  the  host  of  Charlemagne,  he  animates  their  cour 
age  by  alluding  to  their  battles  with  the  Moors,  and  ex 
claims,  "  Shall  the  lions  that  have  bathed  their  paws  in 
Libyan  gore  now  crouch  before  the  Frank  ?  "  When  he 
enters  the  palace  of  the  treacherous  Alfonso,  to  upbraid 
him  for  a  broken  promise,  and  the  king  orders  him  to  be 
arrested  for  contumely,  he  lays  his  hand  upon  his  sword 
and  cries,  "Let  no  one  stir!  I  am  Bernardo;  and  my 
sword  is  not  subject  even  to  kings  !"  When  the  Count 
Alarcos  prepares  to  put  to  death  his  own  wife  at  the 
king's  command,  she  submits  patiently  to  her  fate,  asks; 
time  to  say  a  prayer,  and  then  exclaims,  "Xow  bring  me 
my  infant  boy,  that  I  may  give  him  suck,  as  my  last  fare 
well  ! "  Is  there  in  all  the  writings  of  Homer  an  incident 
more  touching,  or  more  true  to  nature  ? 

The  ancient  Spanish  ballads  naturally  divide  them 
selves  into  three  classes  : — the  Historic,  the  Komantic, 
and  the  Moorish.  It  must  be  confessed,  however,  that 
the  line  of  demarcation  between  these  three  classes  is  not 
well  defined;  for  many  of  the  Moorish  ballads  an-  his 
toric,  and  many  others  occupy  a  kind  of  debatable  ground 
between  the  historic  and  the  romantic.  I  have  adopted 
this  classification  for  the  sake  of  its  convenience,  and  shall 
now  make  a  few  hasty  observations  upon  each  class,  and 
illustrate  my  remarks  by  specimens  of  the  ballads. 

The  historic  ballads  are  those  which  recount  the  noble 
deeds  of  the  early  heroes  of  Spain  :  of  Bernardo  del  Car 
pio,  the  Cid,  Martin  Pelaez,  Garcia  Perez  de  Vargas, 
Alonso  de  Aguilar,  and  many  others  whose  names  stand 
conspicuous  in  Spanish  history.  Indeed,  these  ballads 
may  themselves  be  regarded  in  the  light  of  historic  docu 
ments  ;  they  are  portraits  of  long-departed  ages,  and  if  at 


142  ANCIENT  SPANISH  BALLADS. 

times  their  features  are  exaggerated  and  colored  with  too 
bold  a  contrast  of  light  and  shade,  yet  the  free  and  spirited 
touches  of  a  master's  hand  are  recognized  in  all.  They 
are  instinct,  too,  with  the  spirit  of  Castilian  pride,  with 
the  high  and  dauntless  spirit  of  liberty  that  burned  so 
bright  of  old  in  the  heart  of  the  brave  hidalgo.  Take, 
for  example,  the  ballad  of  the  Five  Farthings.  King  Al 
fonso  VIII.,  having  exhausted  his  treasury  in  war,  wishes 
to  lay  a  tax  of  five  farthings  upon  each  of  the  Castilian 
hidalgos,  in  order  to  defray  the  expenses  of  a  journey 
from  Burgos  to  Cuenca.  This  proposition  of  the  king 
was  met  with  disdain  by  the  noblemen  who  had  been  as= 
Bembled  on  the  occasion. 

"  Don  Nuno,  Count  of  Lara, 

In  anger  and  in  pride, 
Forgot  all  reverence  for  the  king, 
And  thus  in  wrath  replied : — 

"  '  Our  noble  ancestors,'  quoth  he, 

'  Ne'er  such  a  tribute  paid ; 
Nor  shall  the  king  receive  of  us 
What  they  have  once  gainsaid. 

"  '  The  base-born  soul  who  deems  it  just 

May  here  with  thee  remain ; 
But  follow  me,  ye  cavaliers, 
Ye  noblemen  of  Spain.' 

"  Forth  followed  they  the  noble  Count, 

They  marched  to  Glera's  plain ; 
Out  of  three  thousand  gallant  knights 
Did  only  three  remain. 

"  They  tied  the  tribute  to  their  spears, 

They  raised  it  in  the  air, 
And  they  sent  to  tell  their  lord  the  king 
That  his  tax  was  ready  there. 


ANCIENT  SPANISH  BALLADS.  143 

"  *  He  may  send  and  take  by  force,'  said  they, 

'  This  paltry  sum  of  gold; 
But  the  goodly  gift  of  liberty 
Cannot  be  bought  and  sold.' " 


The  same  gallant  spirit  breathes  through  all  the  historic 
ballads ;  but,  perhaps,  most  fervently  in  those  which  re 
late  to  Bernardo  del  Carpio.  How  spirit-stirring  are  all 
the  speeches  which  the  ballad-writers  have  put  into  the 
mouth  of  this  valiant  hero  !  "  Ours  is  the  blood  of  the 
Goth,"  says  he  to  King  Alfonso  ;  "  sweet  to  us  is  liberty, 
and  bondage  odious  !" — "The  king  may  give  his  castles 
to  the  Frank,  bui  hot  his  vassals ;  for  kings  themselves 
hold  no  dominion  over  the  free  will  ! "  He  and  his  fol 
lowers  would  rather  die  freemen  than  live  slaves  !  If  these 
are  the  common  watchwords  of  liberty  at  the  present  day, 
they  were  no  less  so  among  the  high-souled  Spaniards  of 
the  eighth  century. 

One  of  the  finest  of  the  historic  ballads  is  that  which 
describes  Bernardo's  march  to  Roncesvalles.  He  sallies 
forth  "  with  %ree  thousand  Leonese  and  more,"  to  pro 
tect  the  glory  and  freedom  of  his  native  land.  From  all 
sides,  the  peasantry  of  the  land  nocked  to  the  hero'a 
standard. 

"  The  peasant  leaves  his  plough  afield, 

The  reaper  leaves  his  hook, 
And  from  his  hand  the  shepherd-boy 
Lets  fall  the  pastoral  crook. 


The  young  set  up  a  shout  of  joy, 
The  old  forget  their  years, 

The  feeble  man  grows  stout  of  heart.. 
No  more  the  craven  fears. 


(44  ANCIENT  SPANISH  BALLADS. 

"  All  rush  to  Bernard's  standard, 

And  on  liberty  they  call ; 
They  cannot  brook  to  wear  the  yoke. 
When  threatened  by  the  Gaul. 

'*  '  Free  were  we  born, '  'tis  thus  they  cry, 

'  And  willingly  pay  we 
The  duty  that  we  owe  our  king, 
By  the  divine  decree. 

"  '  But  God  forbid  that  we  obey 
The  laws  of  foreign  knaves, 
Tarnish  the  glory  of  our  sires, 
And  make  our  children  slaves. 

;*  '  Our  hearts  have  not  so  craven  growm, 

So  bloodless  all  our  veins, 
So  vigorless  our  brawny  arms, 
As  to  submit  to  chains. 

'»  '  Hath  the  audacious  Frank,  forsooth, 

Subdued  these  seas  and  lands  ? 

Shall  he  a  bloodless  victory  have  ? 

No,  not  while  we  have  hands. 

**  '  He  shall  learn  that  the  gallant  Leonese 

Can  bravely  fight  and  fall  ; 
But  that  they  know  not  how  to  yield; 
They  are  Castilians  all. 

"  '  Was  it  for  this  the  Roman  power 

Of  old  was  made  to  yield 
Unto  Numantia's  valiant  hosts, 
On  many  a  bloody  field  ? 

'« « Shall  the  bold  liens  that  have  bathed 

Their  paws  in  Libyan  gore, 
Crouch  basely  to  a  feebler  foe, 
And  dare  the  strife  no  more  ? 


ANCIENT  SPANISH  BALLADS.  I4JJ 

"  '  Let  the  false  king  sell  town  and  tower, 

But  not  his  vassals  free  ; 
For  to  subdue  the  free-born  soul 
No  royal  power  hath  he  ! ' '" 

These  short  specimens  will  suffice  to  show  the  spirit  ol 
the  old  heroic  ballads  of  Spain ;  the  Romances  del  Cid, 
and  those  that  rehearse  the  gallant  achievements  of  many 
other  champions,  brave  and  stalwart  knights  of  old,  I 
must  leave  unnoticed,  and  pass  to  another  field  of  chivalry 
and  song. 

The  next  class  of  the  ancient  Spanish  ballads  is  the 
Romantic,  including  those  which  relate  to  the  Twelve 
Peers  of  Charlemagne  and  other  imaginary  heroes  of  the 
days  of  chivalry.  There  is  an  exaggeration  in  the  prowess 
of  these  heroes  of  romance  which  is  in  accordance  with 
the  warmth  of  a  Spanish  imagination  ;  and  the  ballads 
which  celebrate  their  achievements  still  go  from  mouth 
to  mouth  among  the  peasantry  of  Spain,  and  are  hawked 
about  the  streets  by  the  blind  ballad-monger. 

Among  the  romantic  ballads,  those  of  the  Twelve  Peers 
stand  pre-eminent ;  not  so  much  for  their  poetic  merit  as 
for  the  fame  of  their  heroes.  In  them  are  sung  the  val 
iant  knights  whose  history  is  written  more  at  large  in  the 
prose  romances  of  chivalry, — Orlando,  and  Oliver,  and 
Montesinos,  and  Durandarte,  and  the  Marquis  of  Mantua, 
and  the  other  paladins,  " que  en  una  mesa  comian pan." 
These  ballads  are  of  different  length  and  various  degrees 
of  merit.  Of  some  a  few  lines  only  remain  ;  they  are 
evidently  fragments  of  larger  works  ;  while  others,  on  the 
contrary,  aspire  to  the  length  and  dignity  of  epic  poems  ; 
— witness  the  ballads  of  the  Conde  de  Trios  and  the  Mar 
quis  of  Mantua,  i-adi  of  which  consists  of  nearly  a  thou- 
i'Mid  long  and  sonorous  lines. 
10 


146  ANCIENT  SPANISH  BALLADS. 

Among  these  ballads  of  the  Twelve  Peers  there  are 
many  of  great  beauty  ;  others  possess  little  merit,  and  are 
wanting  in  vigor  and  conciseness.  From  the  structure  of 
the  versification,  I  should  rank  them  among  the  oldest  of 
the  Spanish  ballads.  They  are  all  monorhythmic,  with 
full  consonant  rhymes. 

To  the  romantic  ballads  belong  also  a  great  number 
which  recount  the  deeds  of  less  celebrated  heroes ;  but 
among  them  all  none  is  so  curious  as  that  of  Vergilios. 
Like  the  old  French  romance-writers  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
the  early  Spanish  poets  introduce  the  Mantuan  bard  as  a 
knight  of  chivalry.  The  ballad  informs  us  that  a  certain 
king  kept  him  imprisoned  seven  years,  for  what  old  Bran- 
tome  would  call  outrecuydance  with  a  certain  Dona  Isa 
bel.  But  being  at  mass  on  Sunday,  the  recollection  of 
Virgil  comes  suddenly  into  his  mind,  when  he  ought  to 
be  attending  to  the  priest ;  and,  turning  to  his  knights, 
he  asks  them  what  has  become  of  Virgil.  One  of  them 
replies,  "Your  Highness  has  him  imprisoned  in  your 
dungeons  "  ;  to  which  the  king  makes  answer  with  the 
greatest  coolness,  by  telling  them  that  the  dinner  is  wait 
ing,  and  that  after  they  have  dined  they  will  pay  Virgil 
a  visit  in  his  prison.  Then  up  and  spake  the  queen  like  a 
true  heroine  ;  qouth  she,  "  I  will  not  dine  without  him"  ; 
and  straightway  they  all  repair  to  the  prison,  where  they 
find  the  incarcerated  knight  engaged  in  the  pleasant 
pastime  of  combing  his  hair  and  arranging  his  beard. 
He  tells  the  king  very  coolly  that  on  that  very  day  he  has 
been  a  prisoner  seven  years ;  to  this  the  king  replies, 
"  Hush,  hush,  Virgil ;  it  takes  three  more  to  make  ten." 
— "  Sire,"  says  Virgil,  with  the  same  philosophical  com 
posure,  "if  your  Highness  so  ordains,  I  will  pass  my 
whole  life  here." — "  As  a  reward  for  your  patience,  you 


ANCIENT  SPANISH  BALLADS.  147 

shall  dine  with  me  to-day,"  says  the  king.  "My  coat  is 
torn,"  says  Virgil ;  "I  am  not  in  trim  to  make  a  leg." — 
But  this  difficulty  is  removed  by  the  promise  of  a  new 
suit  from  the  king  ;  and  they  go  to  dinner.  Virgil  de 
lights  both  knights  and  damsels,  but  most  of  all  Dona 
Isabel.  The  archbishop  is  called  in ;  they  are  married 
forthwith,  and  the  ballad  closes  like  a  scene  in  some  old 
play  : — "  He  takes  her  by  the  hand,  and  leads  her  to  the 
garden. " . 

Such  is  this  curious  ballad. 

I  now  turn  to  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  these  an 
cient  Spanish  poems  ; — it  is  the  Romance  del  Conde 
Alarcos  ;  a  ballad  full  of  interest  and  of  touching  pathos. 
The  story  is  briefly  this.  The  Count  Alarcos,  after  being 
secretly  betrothed  to  the  Infanta  Solisa,  forsakes  her  and 
weds  another  lady.  Many  years  afterward,  the  princess, 
sitting  alone,  as  she  was  wont,  and  bemoaning  her  forsaken 
lot,  resolves  to  tell  the  cause  of  her  secret  sorrow  to  the 
king  her  father  ;  and,  after  confessing  her  clandestine  love 
for  Count  Alarcos,  demands  the  death  of  the  Countess,  to 
heal  her  wounded  honor.  Her  story  awakens  the  wrath 
of  the  king  ;  he  acknowledges  the  justness  of  her  de 
mand,  seeks  an  interview  with  the  Count,  and  sets  the 
case  before  him  in  so  strong  a  light,  that  finally  he  Avrings 
from  him  a  promise  to  put  his  wife  to  death  with  his  own 
hand.  The  Count  returns  homeward  a  grief-stricken 
man,  weeping  the  sad  destiny  of  his  wife,  and  saying 
within  himself,  "How  shall  Hook  upon  her  smile  of  joy, 
when  she  comes  forth  to  meet  me  ?  "  The  Countess  wel 
comes  his  return  with  affectionate  tenderness ;  but  he  is 
heavy  at  heart  and  disconsolate.  He  sits  down  to  supper 
with  his  children  around  him,  Init  the  food  is  untasted  ; 
be  hides  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  weeps.  At  length 


148  ANCIENT  SPANISH  BALLADS. 

they  retire  to  their  chamber.     In  the  language  of  Mr, 
Lockhart's  *  translation, — • 

;;  They  came  together  to  the  bower,  where  they  were  used  to  rest,— • 
None  with  them  but  the  little  babe  that  was  upon  the  breast  ; 
The  Count  had  barred  the  chamber-doors, — they  ne'er  were  barred 

till  then  : 
'•  Unhappy  lady, '  he  began,  '  and  I  most  lost  of  men  ! ' 

:  •  Now  speak  not  so,  my  noble  lord,  my  husband,  and  my  life  ! 
Unhappy  never  can  she  be  that  is  Alarcos'  wife  ! ' 
'  Alas  !  unhappy  lady,  'tis  but  little  that  you  know  ; 
For  in  that  very  word  you've  said  is  gathered  all  your  woe. 

*•  'Long  since  I  loved  a  lady, — long  since  I  oaths  did  plight 
To  be  that  lady's  husband,  to  love  her  day  and  night ; 
Her  fat  lie  r  is  our  lord  the  king, — to  him  the  thing  is  known  ; 
And  now, — that  1  the  news  should  bring  ! — she  claims  me  for  hei 
own. 

-  •  Alas  !  my  love,  alas  !  my  life,  the  right  is  on  their  side  ; 
!•><•  I  had  seen  your  face,  sweet  wife,  she  was  betrothed  my  bride  ; 
lint-  <),  that  I  should  speak  the  word  ! — since  in  her  place  you 

lie, 
Tt  is  the  bidding  of  our  lord  that  you  this  night  must  die.' 

•' '  'A  re  these  the  wages  of  my  love,  so  lowly  and  so  leal  ? 
i ),  kill  me  not,  thou  noble  Count,  when  at  thy  foot  I  kneel  ! 
Rut  send  me  to  my  father's  house,  where  once  T  dwelt  in  glee  ; 
There  will  1  live  a  lone,  chaste  life,  and  rear  my  children  three.' 

•  Ancient •  Spanish  Ballads,  Historical  and  Romantic.  By  J.  G. 
I  ,'ickhurt.  These  atv  beautiful  poems,  but  poor  translations.  They 
do  not  sufficiently  preserve  the  austere  simplicity  of  their  originals, 
except,  perhaps,  in  the  single  instance  before  us.  Here  the  transla 
tion  is  much  more  literal  than  in  the  rest  of  Mr.  Lockhart's  sped 
mens. 


ANCIENT  SPANISH  BALLADS.  149 

"  '  It  may  not  be, — mine  oath  is  strong, — ere  dawn  of  day  you  die.' 
'  0,  well  'tis  seen  how  all  alone  upon  the  earth  am  I  ! — 
My  father  is  an  old,  frail  man  ;  my  mother's  in  her  grave 
And  dead  is  stout  Don  Garci, — alas  !  my  brother  brave  I 

"  '  'Twas  at  this  coward  king's  command  they  slew  my  b-othei 

dear, 

And  now  I'm  helpless  in  the  land  ! — It  is  not  death  I  fear, 
But  loth,  loth  am  I  to  depart,  and  leave  my  children  so  ; — 
Now  let  me  lay  them  to  my  heart,  and  kiss  them,  ere  I  go.' 

*•  '  Kiss  him  that  lies  upon  thy  breast, — the  rest  thou  mayst  not 

see.' 

'I  would  fain  say  an  Ave.'     '  Then  say  it  speedily.' 
She  knelt  her  down  upon  her  knee, — '  O  Lord  behold  my  case  ! 
Judge  not  my  deeds,  but  look  on  me  in  pity  and  great  grace  ! ' 

"  When  she  had  made  her  orison,  up  from  her  knees  she  rose  : — 
'  Be  kind,  Alarcos,  to  our  babes,  and  pray  for  my  repose  ; 
And  now  give  me  my  boy  once  more,  upon  my  breast  to  hold, 
That  lie  may  drink  one  farewell  drink  before  my  breast  be  cold.' 

"  '  Why  would  you  waken  the  poor  child  ?  you  see  he  is  asleep  ; 
Prepare,  dear  wife,  there  is  no  time,  the  dawn  begins  to  peep.' 
'  Now,  hear  me,  Count  Alarcos  !  I  give  thee  pardon  free  : 
I  pardon  thee  for  the  love's  sake  wherewith  I've  loved  thee  ; 

"  'But  they  have  not  my  pardon, — the  king  and  his  proud  daugh" 

ter  ; 

The  curse  of  God  be  on  them,  for  this  unchristian  slaughter. 
1  charge  them  with  my  dying  breath,  ere  thirty  days  be  gone, 
To  meet  me  in  the  realm  of  death,  and  at  God's  awful  throne  ! ' " 

The  Count  then  strangles  her  with  a  scarf,  and  the 
ballad  concludes  with  the  fulfilment  of  the  dying  lady's 
prayer,  in  the  death  of  the  king  and  the  Infanta  within 
twenty  days  of  her  own. 

Pew,  I  think,  will  be  disposed  to  question  the  beauty 
of  this  ancient  ballad,  though  a  refined  and  cultivated 


150  ANCIENT  SPANISH  BALLADS. 

taste  may  revolt  from  the  seemingly  unnatural  incident 
jpon  which  it  is  founded.  It  must  be  recollected  that 
this  is  a  scene  taken  from  a  barbarous  age,  when  the  life 
of  even  the  most  cherished  and  beloved  was  held  of  little 
value  in  comparison  with  a  chivalrous  but  false  and  exag 
gerated  point  of  honor.  It  must  be  borne  in  mind,  also, 
that,  notwithstanding  the  boasted  liberty  of  the  Castilian 
hidalgos,  and  their  frequent  rebellions  against  the  crown, 
a  deep  reverence  for  the  divine  right  of  kings,  and  a  con 
sequent  disposition  to  obey  the  mandates  of  the  throne, 
at  almost  any  sacrifice,  has  always  been  one  of  the  promi 
nent  traits  of  the  Spanish  character.  When  taken  in 
connection  with  these  circumstances,  the  story  of  this  old 
ballad  ceases  be  so  grossly  improbable  as  it  seems  at  first 
sight ;  and,  indeed,  becomes  an  illustration  of  national 
character.  In  all  probability,  the  story  of  the  Conde 
Alarcos  had  some  foundation  in  fact.* 

The  third  class  of  the  ancient  Spanish  ballads  is  the 
Moorish.  Here  we  enter  a  new  world,  more  gorgeous  and 
more  dazzling  than  that  of  Gothic  chronicle  and  tradi 
tion.  The  stern  spirits  of  Bernardo,  the  Cid,  and  the  Mu- 
darra  have  passed  away  ;  the  mail-clad  forms  of  Guarinos, 
Orlando,  and  Durandarte  are  not  here ;  the  scene  is 
changed ;  it  is  the  bridal  of  Andalla ;  the  bull-fight  of 
Ganzul.  The  sunshine  of  Andalusia  glances  upon  the 
marble  halls  of  Granada,  and  green  are  the  banks  of  the 
Xenil  and  the  Darro.  A  band  of  Moorish  knights,  gayly 
arrayed  in  gambesons  of  crimson  silk,  with  scarfs  of  blue 


*  This  exaggerated  reverence  for  the  person  and  prerogatives  of 
the  king  has  furnished  the  groundwork  of  two  of  the  best  dramas  in 
the  Spanish  language  ;  La  Estrella  de  Sevilla,  by  Lope  d3  Vega, 
and  Del  Rey  abajo  Ninguno,  by  Francisco  de  Rojas. 


ANCIENT  SPANISH  BALLADS.  151 

and  jewelled  tahalies,  sweep  like  the  wind  through  the 
square  of  Vivarambla.  They  ride  to  the  Tournament  of 
Reeds ;  the  Moorish  maiden  leans  from  the  balcony  j 
bright  eyes  glisten  from  many  a  lattice  ;  and  the  victori 
ous  knight  receives  the  prize  of  valor  from  the  hand  of 
her  whose  beauty  is  like  the  star-lit  night.  These  are  the 
Xarifas,  the  Celindas,  and  Lindaraxas, — the  Andallas, 
Ganzules,  and  Abenzaydes  of  Moorish  song. 

Then  comes  the  sound  of  the  silver  clarion,  and  the 
roll  of  the  Moorish  atabal,  down  from  the  snowy  pass  of 
the  Sierra  Nevada  and  across  the  gardens  of  the  Vega. 
Alhama  has  fallen  !  woe  is  me,  Alhama  !  The  Christian 
is  at  the  gates  of  Granada  ;  the  banner  of  the  cross  floats 
from  the  towers  of  the  Alhambra  !  And  these,  too,  are 
themes  for  the  minstrel, — themes  sung  alike  by  Moor  and 
Spaniard. 

Among  the  Moorish  ballads  are  included  not  only  those 
which  were  originally  composed  in  Arabic,  but  all  that 
relate  to  the  manners,  customs,  and  history  of  the  Moors 
in  Spain.  In  most  of  them  the  influence  of  an  Oriental 
taste  is  clearly  visible  ;  their  spirit  is  more  refined  and  ef 
feminate  than  that  of  the  historic  and  romantic  ballads, 
in  which  no  trace  of  such  an  influence  is  perceptible. 
The  spirit  of  the  Cid  is  stern,  unbending,  steel-clad  ;  his 
hand  grasps  his  sword  Tizona ;  his  heel  wounds  the  flank 
of  his  steed  Babieca ; — 

"  La  mano  aprieta  a,  Tizona, 
Y  el  talon  fiere  a  Babieca. " 

But  the  spirit  of  Arbolan  the  Moor,  though  resolute  in 
camps,  is  effeminate  in  courts  ;  he  is  a  diamond  among 
j-eyniitars,  yet  graceful  in  the  dance ; — 


152  ANCIENT  SPANISH  BALLADS. 

"  Diamante  entre  los  alfanges, 
Gracioso  en  baylar  las  zambras." 

The  ancient  ballads  are  stamped  with  the  character  of 
their  heroes.  I  could  give  abundant  illustrations  of  this, 
but  it  is  not  necessary. 

Among  the  most  spirited  of  the  Moorish  ballads  are 
those  which  are  interwoven  in  the  History  of  the  Civil 
Wars  of  Granada.  The  following,  entitled  "A  very 
mournful  Ballad  on  the  Siege  and  Conquest  of  Alhama," 
is  very  beautiful  :  and  such  was  the  effect  it  produced 
upon  the  Moors,  that  it  was  forbidden,  on  pain  of  death, 
to  sing  it  within  the  walls  of  Granada.  The  translation, 
which  is  executed  with  great  skill  and  fidelity,  is  from 
the  pen  of  Lord  Byron. 

"  The  Moorish  king  rides  up  and  down, 
Through  Granada's  royal  town  ; 
From  Elvira's  gates  to  those 
Of  Bivarambla  on  he  goes. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

"Letters  to  the  monarch  tell 
How  Alhama's  city  fell  ; 
In  the  fire  the  scroll  he  threw, 
And  the  messenger  he  slew, 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

"He  quits  his  mule,  and  mounts  his  horse, 
And  through  the  street  directs  his  course, 
Through  the  streets  of  Zacatin 
To  the  Alhambra  spurring  in. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

"  When  the  Alhambra's  walls  he  gained 
On  the  moment  he  ordained 


ANCIENT  SPANISH  BALLADS.  163 

That  the  trumpet  straight  should  sound 
With  the  silver  clarion  round. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

"  And  when  the  hollow  drums  of  war 
Beat  the  loud  alarm  afar, 
That  the  Moors  of  town  and  plain 
Might  answer  to  the  martial  strain,— 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

"  Then  the  Moors,  by  this  aware 

That  bloody  Mars  recalled  them  there. 

One  by  one,  and  two  by  two, 

To  a  mighty  squadron  grew. 

Woe  is  me,  Alharna  ! 

"  Out  then  spake  an  aged  Moor 
In  these  words  the  king  before  : 
'  Wherefore  call  on  us,  0  king  ? 
What  may  mean  this  gathering  ? ' 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

"  '  Friends  !  ye  have,  alas  !  to  know 
Of  a  most  disastrous  blow. — 
That  the  Christians,  stern  and  bold, 
Have  obtained  Alhama 's  held. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

"  Out  then  spake  old  Alfaqui, 
With  his  beard  so  white  to  see  : 
'  Good  king,  thou  art  justly  served  j 
Good  king,  this  thou  hast  deserved. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

"  By  thee  were  slain,  in  evil  hour, 
The  Abencerrage,  Granada's  flower  ; 
And  strangers  were  received  by  the« 
Of  Cordova  the  chivalry. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  I 


154  ANCIENT  SPANISH  BALLADS. 

"  '  And  for  this,  O  king  !  is  sent 
On  thee  a  double  chastisement  ; 
Thee  and  thine,  thy  crown  and  realm, 
One  last  wreck  shall  overwhelm. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhaina  ! 

"  '  He  who  holds  no  laws  in  awe, 
He  must  perish  by  the  law  ; 
And  Granada  must  be  won, 
And  thyself  with  her  undone. ' 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

"Fire  flashed  from  out  the  old  Moor's  eyes  ; 
The  monarch's  wrath  began  to  rise, 
Because  he  answered,  and  because 
He  spake  exceeding  well  of  laws. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

"  '  There  is  no  law  to  say  such  things 
As  may  disgust  the  ear  of  kings  ! 
Thus,  snorting  with  his  choler,  said 
The  Moorish  king,  and  doomed  him  dead. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  !" 

Such  are  the  ancient  ballads  of  Spain  ;  poems  which, 
like  the  Gothic  cathedrals  of  the  Middle  Ages,  have  out 
lived  the  names  of  their  builders.  They  are  the  handi 
work  of  wandering,  homeless  minstrels,  who  for  their  daily 
bread  thus  "built  the  lofty  rhyme";  and  whose  names, 
like  their  dust  and  ashes,  have  long,  long  been  wrapped 
in  a  shroud.  "  These  poets,"  says  an  anonymous  writer, 
"  have  left  behind  them  no  trace  to  which  the  imagination 
'can  attach  itself;  they  have  'died  and  made  no  sign.' 
We  pass  from  the  infancy  of  Spanish  poetry  to  the  age  of 
Charles,  through  a  long  vista  of  monuments  without 
inscriptions,  as  the  traveller  approaches  the  noise  and 
bustle  of  modern  Rome  through  the  lines  of  silent  and 
unknown  tombs  that  border  the  Appian  Way." 


ANCIENT  SPJiNIXH  BALLADS.  155 

Before  closing  this  essay,  I  must  allude  to  the  unfavora 
ble  opinion  which  the  learned  Dr.  Southey  has  expressed 
concerning  the  merit  of  these  old  Spanish  ballads.  In  his 
preface  to  the  Chronicle  of  the  Cid,  he  says  :  "  The 
heroic  ballads  of  the  Spaniards  have  been  overrated  in 
this  country  ;  they  are  infinitely  and  every  way  inferior 
to  our  own.  There  are  some  spirited  ones  in  the  Guerras 
Civiles  de  Granada,  from  which  the  rest  have  been  esti' 
mated ;  but  excepting  these,  I  know  none  of  any  valie 
among  the  many  hundreds  which  I  have  perused."  On 
this  field  I  am  willing  to  do  battle,  though  it  be  with  a 
veteran  knight  who  bears  enchanted  arms,  and  whose 
sword,  like  that  of  Martin  Antolinez,  "  illumines  all  the 
field. "  That  the  old  Spanish  ballads  may  have  been  over 
rated,  and  that  as  a  whole  they  are  inferior  to  the  English, 
I  concede  ;  that  many  of  the  hundred  ballads  of  the  Cid 
are  wanting  in  interest,  and  that  many  of  those  of  the 
Twelve  Peers  of  France  are  languid,  and  drawn  out 
beyond  the  patience  of  the  most  patient  reader,  I  concede  ; 
I  willingly  confess,  also,  that  among  them  all  I  have  found 
none  that  can  rival  in  graphic  power  the  short  but  won 
derful  ballad  of  Sir  Patrick  Spence,  wherein  the  mariner 
sees  "the  new  moon  with  the  old  moon  in  her  arms,"  or 
the  more  modern  one  of  the  Battle  of  Agiucourt,  by 
Michael  Drayton,  beginning, — 

"  Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France, 
As  we  our  sails  advance, 
Nor  now  to  prove  our  chance 

Longer  will  tarry  ; 
But  putting  to  the  main, 
At  Caux,  the  mouth  of  Seine, 
With  all  his  martial  train, 

Landed  King  Harry." 


156  ANCIENT  SPANISH  BALLADS. 

All  this  I  readily  concede  :  but  that  the  old  Spanish 
ballads  are  infinitely  and  every  way  inferior  to  the  Eng 
lish,  and  that  among  them  all  there  are  none  of  any  value, 
save  a  few  which  celebrate  the  civil  wars  of  Granada, — 
this  I  deny.  I  think  the  March  of  Bernardo  del  Carpio 
is  equal  to  Chevy  Chase  ;  and  that  the  ballad  of  the  Conde 
Alarcos,  in  simplicity  and  pathos,  has  no  peer  in  all  Eng 
lish  balladry, — it  is  superior  to  Edcm  o'  Gordon.  In  proof 
of  this  opinion  I  confidently  appeal  to  the  ballads  them 
selves, — nay,  even  to  the  short  specimens  that  have  been 
given  in  this  essay. 

But  a  trace  to  criticism.  Already,  methinks,  I  hear 
the  voice  of  a  drowsy  and  prosaic  herald  proclaiming,  in 
the  language  of  Don  Quixote  to  the  puppet-player,  "  Make 
an  end,  Master  Peter,  for  it  grows  toward  supper-time, 
and  I  have  some  symptoms  of  hunger,  upon  me." 


THE  VILLAGE   OF  EL  PARDILLO. 

"  When  the  lawyer  is  swallowed  up  with  business,  and  the  statesman  u  pr» 
Tenting  or  contriving  plots,  then  we  sit  on  cowslip  banks,  hear  the  birds  sing, 
and  possess  ourselves  in  as  much  quietness  as  these  silent  silver  streams  we  now 
see  glide  so  quietly  by  us."  IZAAK  WALTON. 

IN"  that  delicious  season  when  the  coy  and  capricious 
maidenhood  of  spring  is  swelling  into  the  warmer, 
riper,  and  more  voluptuous  womanhood  of  summer,  I  left 
Madrid  for  the  village  of  El  Pardillo.  I  had  already  seen 
enough  of  the  villages  of  the  North  of  Spain  to  know 
that  for  the  most  part  they  have  few  charms  to  entice 
one  from  the  city  ;  but  I  was  curious  to  see  the  peasantry 
of  the  land  in  their  native  homes, — to  see  how  far  the 
shepherds  of  Castile  resemble  those  who  sigh  and  sing  in 
the  pastoral  romances  of  Montemayor  and  Caspar  Gil 
Polo. 

I  love  the  city  and  its  busy  hum  ;  I  love  that  glad  ex 
citement  of  the  crowd  which  makes  the  pulse  beat  quick, 
the  freedom  from  restraint,  the  absence  of  those  curious 
syes  and  idle  tongues  which  persecute  you  in  villages  and 
provincial  towns.  I  love  the  country,  too,  in  its  season  ;  and 
there  is  no  scene  over  which  my  eye  roves  with  more  de 
light  than  the  face  of  a  summer  landscape  dimpled  witli 
soft  sunny  hollows,  and  smiling  in  all  the  freshness  and 
luxuriance  of  June.  There  is  no  book  in  which  I  read 
sweeter  lessons  of  virtue,  or  find  the  beauty  of  a  quiet  life 
more  legibly  recorded.  My  heart  drinks  in  the  tranquil 
lity  of  the  scene  ;  and  I  never  hear  the  sweet  warble  of  a 
157 


158  THE  VILLAGE  OF  EL  PARDILLO. 

bird  from  its  native  wood,  without  a  silent  wish  that  such 
a  cheerful  voice  and  peaceful  shade  were  mine.  There  is 
a  beautiful  moral  feeling  connected  with  everything  in 
rural  life,  which  is  not  dreamed  of  in  the  philosophy  of 
the  city  ;  the  voice  of  the  brook  and  the  language  of  the 
winds  and  woods  are  no  poetic  fiction.  What  an  impres 
sive  lesson  is  there  in  the  opening  bud  of  spring !  what 
an  eloquent  homily  in  the  fall  of  the  autumnal  leaf  !  How 
well  does  tlie  song  of  a  passing  bird  represent  the  glad 
but  transitory  days  of  youth  !  and  in  the  hollow  tree  and 
hooting  owl  what  a  melancholy  image  of  the  decay  and 
imbecility  of  old  age  !  In  the  beautiful  language  of  an 
English  poet, — 

"Your  voiceless  lips,  0  flowers,  are  living  preachers, 
Each  cup  a  pulpit,  every  leaf  a  book, 
Supplying  to  my  fancy  numerous  teachers, 
From  loneliest  nook. 

"  'Neath  cloistered  boughs  each  floral  bell  that  swingeth, 
And  tolls  its  perfume  on  the  passing  air, 
Makes  Sabbath  in  the  fields,  and  ever  ringeth 
A  call  to  prayer  ; 

"Not  to  the  domes  where  crumbling  arch  and  column 
Attest  the  feebleness  of  mortal  hand, 
But  to  that  fane  most  catholic  and  solemn 
Which  God  hath  planned  ; 

"  To  that  cathedral,  boundless  as  our  wonder, 
Whose  quenchless  lamps  the  sun  and  moon  supply,— 
Its  choir  the  winds  and  waves,  its  organ  thunder, 
Its  dome  the  sky. 

"There,  amid  solitude  and  shade,  I  wander 
Through  the  green  aisles,  and,  stretched  upon  the  sod, 
Awed  by  the  silence,  reverently  ponder 
The  ways  of  God." 


THE  VILLAGE  OF  EL  PARDILLO.  159 

But  the  traveller  who  journeys  through  the  northern 
provinces  of  Spain  will  look  in  vain  for  the  charms  of 
rural  scenery  in  the  villages  he  passes.  Instead  of  trim 
cottages,  and  gardens,  and  the  grateful  shade  of  trees,  he 
will  see  a  cluster  of  stone  hovels  roofed  with  red  tiles  and 
basking  in  the  hot  sun,  without  a  single  tree  to  lend  him 
shade  or  shelter  ;  and  instead  of  green  meadows  and 
woodlands  vocal  with  the  song  of  birds,  he  will  find 
bleak  and  rugged  mountains,  and  vast  extended  plains, 
that  stretch  away  beyond  his  ken. 

It  was  my  good  fortune,  however,  to  find,  not  many 
leagues  from  the  metropolis,  a  village  which  could  boast 
the  shadow  of  a  few  trees.  El  Pardillo  is  situated  on  the 
southern  slope  of  the  Guardarama  Mountains,  just  where 
the  last  broken  spurs  of  the  sierra  stretch  forward  into 
the  vast  table-land  of  New  Castile.  The  village  itself, 
like  most  other  Castilian  villages,  is  only  a  cluster  of 
weather-stained  and  dilapidated  houses,  huddled  together 
without  beauty  or  regularity  ;  but  the  scenery  around  it 
is  picturesque, — a  mingling  of  hill  and  dale,  sprinkled 
with  patches  of  cultivated  land  and  clumps  of  forest- 
trees  ;  and  in  the  background  the  blue,  vapory  outline  of 
the  Guardarama  Mountains  melting  into  the  sky. 

In  this  quiet  place  I  sojourned  for  a  season,  accompa 
nied  by  the  publican  Don  Valentin  and  his  fair  daughter 
Florencia.  We  took  up  our  abode  in  the  cottage  of  a 
peasant  named  Lucas,  an  honest  tiller  of  the  soil,  simple 
and  good-natured  ;  or,  in  the  more  emphatic  language  of 
Don  Valentin,  "  un  lionibre  muy  infeliz,  y  sin  inaltria 
ninguna."  Not  so  his  wife  Matina  ;  she  was  a  Tartar, 
and  so  mettlesome  withal,  that  poor  Lucas  skulked  dog 
gedly  about  his  own  premises,  with  his  head  dowii  and 
his  tail  between  his  legs. 


160  THE  VILLAGE  OF  EL  PARDILLO. 

In  this  little  village  my  occupations  were  few  and  sim 
ple.  My  morning's  walk  was  to  the  Cross  of  Espalmado, 
a  large  wooden  crucifix  in  the  fields  ;  the  day  was  passed 
with  books  or  with  any  idle  companion  I  was  lucky  enough 
to  catch  by  the  button,  and  bribe  with  a  cigar  into  a  long 
story,  or  a  little  village  gossip  ;  and  I  whiled  away  the  even 
ing  in  peeping  round  among  the  cottagers,  studying  the 
beautiful  landscape  that  spread  before  me,  and  watching 
the  occasional  gathering  of  a  storm  about  the  blue  peaks  of 
the  Guardarama  Mountains.  My  favorite  haunt  was  a  se 
cluded  spot  in  a  little  woodland  valley,  through  which  a 
crystal  brook  ran  brawling  along  its  pebbly  channel. 
There,  stretched  in  the  shadow  of  a  tree,  I  often  passed 
the  hours  of  noontide  heat,  now  reading  the  magic 
numbers  of  Garcilaso,  and  anon  listening  to  the  song  of 
the  nightingale  overhead ;  or  watching  the  toil  of  a 
patient  ant,  as  he  rolled  his  stone,  like  Sisyphus,  Tip  hill, 
or  the  flight  of  a  bee  darting  from  flower  to  flower,  and 
"  hiding  his  murmurs  in  the  rose." 

Blame  me  not,  thou  studious  moralist, — blame  me  not 
unheard  for  this  idle  dreaming  ;  such  moments  are  not 
wholly  thrown  away.  In  the  language  of  Goethe,  "  I 
lie  down  in  the  grass  near  a  falling  brook,  and  close  to  the 
earth  a  thousand  varieties  of  grasses  became  perceptible. 
AVhen  I  listen  to  the  hum  of  the  little  world  between  the 
stubble,  and  see  the  countless  indescribable  forms  of 
insects,  I  feel  the  presence  of  the  Almighty  who  has 
created  us, — the  breath  of  the  All-benevolent  who  sup 
ports  us  in  perpetual  enjoyment." 

The  village  church,  too,  was  a  spot  around  which  1 
occasionally  lingered  of  an  evening  when  in  pensive  01 
melancholy  mood.  And  here,  gentle,  reader,  thy  imagina 
tion  will  straightway  conjure  up  a  scene  of  ideal  beauty,— 


THE  VILLAGE  OF  EL  PARDILLO.  161 

a  village  church  with  decent  whitewashed  walls,  and 
modest  spire  just  peeping  forth  from  a  clump  of  trees  ! 
No  ;  I  will  not  deceive  thee  ;  the  church  of  El  Pardillo 
resembles  not  this  picture  of  thy  well-tutored  fancy.  It 
is  a  gloomy  little  edifice,  standing  upon  the  outskirts  of 
the  village,  and  built  of  dark  and  unhewn  stone,  with  a 
spire  like  a  sugar-loaf.  There  is  no  grass-plot  in  front, 
but  a  little  esplanade  beaten  hard  by  the  footsteps  of  the 
church-going  peasantry.  The  tombstone  of  one  of  the 
patriarchs  of  the  village  serves  as  a  doorstep,  and  a  single 
solitary  tree  throws  its  friendly  shade  upon  the  portals 
of  the  little  sanctuary. 

One  evening,  as  I  loitered  around  this  spot,  the  so  and 
of  an  organ  and  the  chant  of  youthful  voices  from  within 
struck  my  ear ;  the  church  door  was  ajar,  and  I  entered. 
There  stood  the  priest,  surrounded  by  a  group  of  children, 
who  were  chanting  a  hymn  to  the  Virgin  : — 

"  Avo  Regina  ccelorum, 
Avc,  Domina  angelorum." 

There  is  something  exceedingly  thrilling  in  the  voices  oi 
children  singing.  Though  their  music  be  unskilful,  yet 
it  finds  its  way  to  the  heart  with  wonderful  celerity. 
Voices  of  cherubs  arc  they,  for  they  breathe  of  paradise  ; 
clear,  liquid  tones  that  flow  from  pure  lips  and  innocent 
hearts,  like  the  sweetest  notes  of  a  flute,  or  the  falling  of 
water  from  a  fountain  !  When  the  chant  was  finished, 
the  priest  opened  a  little  book  which  he  held  in  his  hand, 
and  began,  with  a  voice  as  solemn  ;is  a  funeral-bell,  to 
question  this  class  of  roguish  little  catechumens,  whom 
he  was  initiating  into  the  mysterious  doctrines  of  the 
mother  church.  Some  of  the  questions  and  a  MS  \VCTH 
11 


162  THE  VILLAGE  OF  EL  PARDILLO. 

were  so  curious  that  I  cannot  refrain  from  repeating 
them  here  ;  and  should  any  one  doubt  their  authenticity, 
he  will  find  them  in  the  Spanish  catechisms. 

"  In  what  consists  the  mystery  of  the  Holy  Trinity  1J " 

**In  one  God,  who  is  three  persons;  and  three  per 
son--,  who  are  but  one  God." 

"  'But  tell  me, — three  human  persons,  are  they  not 
three  men  ?  " 

"Yes,  father." 

"  Then  why  are  not  three  divine  persons  three 
Gods?" 

"Because  three  human  persons  have  three  human 
natures  ;  but  the  three  divine  persons  have  only  one 
divine  nature." 

"  Can  you  explain  this  by  an  example  ?  " 

"  Yes,  father  ;  as  a  tree  which  has  three  brandies  is 
Etill  but  one  tree,  since  all  the  three  branches  spring 
from  one  trunk,  so  the  three  divine  persons  are  but  one 
God,  because  they  all  have  the  same  divine  nature." 

"Where  were  these  three  divine  persons  before  the 
leavens  and  the  earth  were  created  ?  " 

"  In  themselves." 

"  Which  of  them  was  made  man  ?  " 

"The  Son." 

"  And  after  the  Son  was  made  man,  was  he  still  God  ?  " 

"  Yes,  father^  for  in  becoming  man  lie  did  not  cease 
to  be  God,  any  more  than  a  man  Avhen  he  becomes  a 
monk  ceases  to  be  a  man." 

"How  was  the  Son  of  God  made  flesh  ?" 

f<  lie  was  born  of  the  most  holy  Virgin  Mary." 

'•'  And  can  we  still  call  her  a  virgin  ?  " 

"  Yes,  father ;  for  as  a  ray  of  the  sun  may  pass  through 
a  pane  of  glass,  and  the  glass  remain  unbroken,  so  the 


THE  VILLAGE  OF  EL  jrARDILLO.  163 

Virgin  Mary,  after  the  birth  of  her  son,  was  a  pure  and 
holy  virgin  as  before."* 

"Who  died  to  save  and  redeem  us  ?" 

"  The  Son  of  God  :  as  man,  and  not  as  God." 

"  How  could  he  suffer  and  die  as  man  only  being  both 
God  and  man,  and  yet  but  one  person  ?  " 

"As  in  a  heated  bar  of  iron  upon  Avhich  water  is 
thrown,  the  heat  only  is  affected  and  not  the  iron,  so  the 
Son  of  God  suffered  in  his  human  nature  and  not  in  his 
divine." 

"  And  when  the  spirit  was  separated  from  his  most 
precious  body,  whither  did  the  spirit  go  ?  " 

"  To  limbo,  to  glorify  the  souls  of  the  holy  fathers." 

"  And  the  body  ?  " 

"It  was  carried  to  the  grave." 

"Did  the  divinity  remain  united  with  the  spirit  or 
with  the  body  ?  " 

"  With  both.  As  a  soldier,  when  he  unsheathes  hia 
sword,  remains  united  both  with  the  sword  and  the 
sheath,  though  they  are  separated  from  each  other,  so 
did  the  divinity  remain  united  both  with  the  spirit  and 


*  This  illustration  was  also  made  use  of  during  the  dark  ages. 
Pierre  de  Corbiac,  a  Troubadour  of  the  thirteenth  century,  tkua 
introduces  it  in  a  poem  entitled  "  Prayer  to  the  Virgin  "  : — 

"  Domna,  verges  pur'  e  fina 
Ans  que  fos  1'  enfantamens, 
Et  apres  tot  eissamens, 
De  vos  trais  sa  earn  humana 
Jhesu-Christ  nostre  salvaire ; 
Si  com  ses  trencamens  faire 
Intra'l  bel  rais  quan  solelha 
Per  la  fenestra  Teirina." 


164  THE  VILLAGE  OF  EL  PARDILLO, 

the  body  of  Christ,  though  the  spirit  was  separated  and 
removed  from  the  body." 

I  did  not  quarrel  Avith  the  priest  for  having  been  born 
and  educated  in  a  different  faith  from  mine  ;  but  as  I 
left  the  church  and  sauntered  slowly  homeward,  I  could 
not  help  asking  myself,  in  a  whisper,  "  Why  perplex  the 
spirit  of  a  child  with  these  metaphysical  subtilties,  these 
dark,  mysterious  speculations,  which  man  in  all  his  pride 
of  intellect  cannot  fathom  nor  explain  ?  " 

I  must  not  forget,  in  this  place,  to  make  honorable 
mention  of  the  little  great  men  of  El  Pardillo.  And 
first  in  order  comes  the  priest,  the  bell-wether  of  the 
flock.  He  was  a  short,  portly  man,  serious  in  manner, 
and  of  grave  and  reverend  presence  ;  though  at  the  same 
time  there  was  a  dash  of  the  jolly-fat-friar  about  him  ; 
and  on  hearing  a  good  joke  or  a  sly  innuendo,  a  smile 
would  gleam  in  his  eye,  and  play  over  his  round  face, 
like  the  light  of  a  glowworm.  His  housekeeper  was  \\ 
brisk,  smiling  little  woman,  on  the  shady  side  of  thirty, 
and  a  cousin  of  his  to  boot.  Whenever  she  was  men 
tioned,  Don  Valentin  looked  wise,  as  if  this  cousinship 
were  apocryphal ;  but  he  said  nothing, — not  he  ;  what 
right  had  he  to  be  peeping  into  other  people's  business, 
when  he  had  only  one  eye  to  look  after  his  own  withal  ? 
Next  in  rank  to  the  Dominie  was  the  Alcalde,  justice  of 
the  peace  and  quorum  ;  a  most  potent,  grave,  and  rever 
end  personage,  with  a  long  beak  of  a  nose,  and  a  pouch 
under  his  chin,  like  a  pelican.  He  was  a  man  of  few 
words,  but  great  in  authority  ;  and  his  importance  was 
vastly  increased  in  the  village  by  a  pair  of  double-bar 
relled  spectacles,  so  contrived,  that,  when  bent  over  his 
desk  and  deeply  buried  in  his  musty  papers,  he  could  look 
up  and  see  what  was  going  on  around  him  without  mov- 


TEE  VILLAGE  OF  EL  PARDILLO.  165 

ing  his  head,  whereby  he  got  the  reputation  of  seeing 
twice  as  much  as  other  people.  There  was  the  village 
surgeon,  too,  a  tall  man  with  a  varnished  hat  and  a 
starved  dog ;  he  had  studied  at  the  University  of  Sala 
manca,  and  was  pompous  and  pedantic,  ever  and  anon 
quoting  some  threadbare  maxim  from  the  Greek  philoso 
phers,  and  embellishing  it  with  a  commentary  of  his  own. 
Then  there  was  the  gray-headed  Sacristan,  who  rang  the 
church-bell,  played  on  the  organ,  and  was  learned  in 
tombstone  lore  ;  a  Politician,  who  talked  me  to  death 
about  taxes,  liberty,  and  the  days  of  the  constitution ; 
and  a  Notary  Public,  a  poor  man  with  a  large  family, 
who  would  make  a  paper  cigar  last  half  an  hour,  and  who 
kept  up  his  respectability  in  the  village  by  keeping  a  horse. 
Beneath  the  protecting  shade  of  these  great  men  fu!1 
many  an  inhabitant  of  El  Pardillo  was  born  and  buried. 
The  village  continued  to  nourish,  a  quiet,  happy  place, 
though  all  unknown  to  fame.  The  inhabitants  were  or 
derly  and  industrious,  went  regularly  to  mass  and  confes 
sion,  kept  every  saint's  day  in  the  calendar,  and  devoutly 
hung  Judas  once  a  year  in  effigy.  On  Sundays  and 
all  other  holidays,  when  mass  was  over,  the  time  was  de 
voted  to  sports  and  recreation  ;  and  the  day  passed  off  in 
social  visiting,  and  athletic  exercises,  such  as  running, 
leaping,  wrestling,  pitching  quoits,  and  heaving  the  bar. 
AY  hen  evening  came,  the  merry  sound  of  the  guitar  sum 
moned  to  the  dance  ;  then  every  nook  and  alley  poured 
forth  its  youthful  company, — light  of  heart  and  heel,  and 
decked  out  in  all  the  holiday  finery  of  flowers,  and  rib 
bons,  and  crimson  sashes.  A  group  gathered  before  the 
cottage-door  ;  the  signal  was  given,  and  away  whirled  the 
merry  dancers  to  the  wild  music  of  voice  and  guitar,  and 
the  measured  beat  of  castanet  and  tambourine. 


166  '  THE  VILLAGE  OF  EL  PARDILLO. 

I  love  these  rural  dances, — from  my  heart  I  love  them. 
This  world,  at  best,  is  so  full  of  care  and  sorrow, — the  life 
of  a  poor  man  is  so  stained  with  the  sweat  of  his  brow,— 
there  is  so  much  toil,  and  struggling,  and  anguish,  and 
disappointment  here  below,  that  I  gaze  with  delight  on  a 
scene  where  all  these  are  laid  aside  and  forgotten,  and 
the  heart  of  the  toil-worn  peasant  seems  to  throw  off  its 
load,  and  to  leap  to  the  sound  of  music,  so  merrily 

"beneath  soft  eve's  consenting  star, 
Fandango  twirls  his  jocund  castanet. " 

Not  many  miles  from  the  village  of  El  Pardillo  stands 
the  ruined  castle  of  Villafranca,  an  ancient  stronghold  of 
the  Moors  of  the  fifteenth  century.  It  is  built  upon  the 
summit  of  a  hill,  of  easy  ascent  upon  one  side,  but  pre 
cipitous  and  inaccessible  on  the  other.  The  front  pre 
sents  a  large,  square  tower,  constituting  the  main  part  of 
the  castle ;  on  one  side  of  which  an  arched  gateway  leads 
to  a  spacious  court-yard  within,  surrounded  by  battle 
ments.  The  corner  towers  are  circular,  with  beetling 
turrets  ;  and  here  and  there,  apart  from  the  main  body  of 
the  castle,  stand  several  circular  basements,  whose  towers 
have  fallen  and  mouldered  into  dust.  From  the  balcony 
in  the  square  tower,  the  eye  embraces  the  level  landscape 
for  leagues  and  leagues  around  ;  and  beneath,  in  the 
depth  of  the  valley,  lies  a  beautiful  grove,  alive  with  the 
song  of  the  nightingale.  The  whole  castle  is  in  ruin,  and 
occupied  only  as  a  hunting-lodge,  being  inhabited  by  a 
solitary  tenant,  who  has  charge  of  the  adjacent  domain. 

One  holiday,  when  mass  was  said  and  the  whole  village 
was  let  loose  to  play,  we  made  a  pilgrimage  to  the  ruins 
of  this  old  Moorish  alcazar.  Our  cavalcade  was  as  motlej 


THE  VILLAGE  OF  EL  PAEDILLO.  16? 

as  that  of  old, — the  pilgrims  "  that  toward  Canterbury 
wolden  ride"  ;  for  we  had  the  priest,  and  the  doctoi  of 
physic,  and  the  man  of  laws,  and  a  wife  of  Bath,  and 
many  more  whom  I  must  leave  unsung.  Merrily  flew  the 
hours  and  fast ;  and  sitting  after  dinner  in  the  gloomy 
hall  of  that  old  castle,  many  a  tale  was  told,  and  many  a 
legend  and  tradition  of  the  past  conjured  up  to  satisfy 
the  curiosity  of  the  present. 

Most  of  these  tales  were  about  the  Moors  who  built  the 
castle,  and  the  treasures  they  had  buried  beneath  it. 
TJien  the  priest  told  the  story  of  a  lawyer  who  sold  him 
self  to  the  devil  for  a  pot  of  money,  and  was  burnt  by  the 
Holy  Inquisition  therefor.  In  his  confession,  he  told 
how  he  had  learned  from  a  Jew  the  secret  of  raising  the 
devil ;  how  he  went  to  the  castle  at  midnight  with  a 
book  which  the  Jew  gave  him,  and,  to  make  the 
charm  sure,  carried  with  him  a  loadstone,  six  nails 
from  the  coffin  of  a  child  of  three  years,  six  tapers  of 
rosewax,  made  by  a  child  of  four  years,  the  skin  and 
blood  of  a  young  kid,  an  iron  fork,  with  which  the 
kid  had  been  killed,  a  few  hazel-rods,  a  flask  of  high- 
proof  brandy,  and  some  lignum-vitae  charcoal  to  make 
a  fire.  AVhen  he  read  in  the  book,  the  devil  appeared 
in  the  shape  of  a  man  dressed  in  flesh-colored  clothes, 
with  long  nails,  and  large  fiery  eyes,  and  he  signed  an 
agreement  with  him  written  in  blood,  promising  never 
to  go  to  mass,  and  to  give  him  his  soul  at  the  end  of 
eight  years  ;  in  return  for  this  he  was  to  have  a  million 
of  dollars  in  good  money,  which  the  devil  was  to  bring 
to  him  the  next  night ;  but  when  the  next  night  came, 
and  the  lawyer  had  conjured  from  his  book,  instead  of 
the  devil,  there  appeared — who  do  you  think  ?  the  alcalde 
with  half  the  village  at  his  heels,  and  the  poor  lawyer 


108  THE  VILLAGE  OF  EL  PA1WILLQ. 

was  handed  over  to  the  Inquisition,  and  burnt  for  dealing 
in  the  black  art. 

I  intended  to  repeat  here  some  of  the  many  tales  thai 
were  told,  but,  upon  reflection,  they  seem  too  frivolous, 
must  therefore  give  place  to  a  more  serious  theme 


THE   MOEAL   AND   DEVOTIONAL  POETRI 
OF  SPAIN. 

Heaven's  dove,  when  highest  he  flies, 
Flies  with  thy  heavenly  wings. 

GRASHAW. 

r  I  MIERE  is  hardly  a  chapter  in  literary  history  more 
-*-  strongly  marked  with  the  peculiarities  of  national 
character  than  that  which  contains  the  moral  and  devo 
tional  poetry  of  Spain.  It  would  naturally  be  expected 
that  in  this  department  of  literature  all  the  fervency  and 
depth  of  national  feeling  would  be  exhibited.  But  still, 
as  the  spirit  of  morality  and  devotion  is  the  same,  wher 
ever  it  exists, — as  the  enthusiasm  of  virtue  and  religion  is 
everywhere  essentially  the  same  feeling,  though  modified 
in  its  degree  and  in  its  action  by  a  variety  of  physical 
causes  and  local  circumstances, — and  as  the  subject  of 
the  didactic  verse  and  the  spiritual  canticle  cannot  be 
naterially  changed  by  the  change  of  nation  and  climate, 
.t  might  at  the  first  glance  seem  quite  as  natural  to  expect: 
that  the  moral  and  devotional  poetry  of  Christian  coun 
tries  would  never  be  very  strongly  marked  with  national 
peculiarities  :  in  other  words,  we  should  expect  it  to  cor 
respond  to  the  warmth  or  coldness  of  national  feeling,  for 
it  is  the  external  and  visible  expression  of  this  feeling ; 
but  not  to  the  distinctions  of  national  character,  because, 
its  nature  and  object  being  everywhere  the  same,  these 
distinctions  become  swallowed  up  in  one  universal  Chris 
tian  character. 
168 


170  THE  MORAL  AND  DEVOTIONAL 

In  moral  poetry  this  is  doubtless  true.  The  great  prin« 
ciples  of  Christian  morality  being  eternal  and  invariable, 
the  verse  which  embodies  and  represents  them  must,  from 
this  very  circumstance,  be  the  same  in  its  spirit  through 
all  Christian  lands.  The  same,  however,  is  not  necessa 
rily  true  of  devotional  or  religious  poetry.  There,  the 
language  of  poetry  is  something  more  than  the  visible 
image  of  a  devotional  spirit.  It  is  also  an  expression  of 
religious  faith  ;  shadowing  forth,  with  greater  or  less  dis 
tinctness,  its  various  creeds  and  doctrines.  As  these  are 
different  in  different  nations,  the  spirit  that  breathes  in 
religious  song,  and  the  letter  that  gives  utterance  to  the 
doctrine  of  faith,  will  not  be  universally  the  same.  v  Thus, 
Catholic  nations  sing  the  praises  of  the  Virgin  Mary  in 
language  in  which  nations  of  the  Protestant  faith  do  not 
unite  ;  and  among  Protestants  themselves,  the  difference 
of  interpretations,  and  the  consequent  belief  or  disbelief 
of  certain  doctrines,  give  a  various  spirit  and  expression 
to  religious  poetry.  And  yet,  in  all,  the  devotional  feel 
ing,  the  heavenward  volition,  is  the  same. 

So  far,  then,  as  peculiarities  of  religious  faith  exercise 
an  influence  upon  intellectual  habits,  and  thus  become  a 
part  of  national  character,  just  so  far  will  the  devotional 
or  religious  poetry  of  a  country  exhibit  the  characteristic 
peculiarities  resulting  from  this  influence  of  faith,  and  its 
assimilation  with  the  national  mind.  Now  Spain  is  by  pre 
eminence  the  Catholic  land  of  Christendom.  Most  of  her 
hi>toric  recollections  are  more  or  less  intimately  associated 
with  the  triumphs  of  the  Christian  faith ;  and  many  of 
her  warriors — of  her  best  and  bravest — were  martyrs  in 
the  holy  cause,  perishing  in  that  war  of  centuries  which 
tvas  carried  on  within  her  own  territories  between  ih« 
Crescent  of  Mahomet  and  the  cross  of  Christ.  Indeed, 


POETE  Y  OF  SPA  TN.  1 71 

the  whole  tissue  of  her  history  is  interwoven  with  miracu 
lous  traditions.  The  intervention  of  her  patron  saint  has 
saved  her  honor  in  more  than  one  dangerous  pass  ;  and 
the  war-shout  of  "Santiago,  y  cierra  Espalia  !  "  has  worked 
like  a  charm  upon  the  wavering  spirit  of  the  soldier.  A 
reliance  on  the  guardian  ministry  of  the  saints  pervades 
the  whole  people,  and  devotional  offerings  for  signal  pres 
ervation  in  times  of  danger  and  distress  cover  the  conse 
crated  walls  of  churches.  An  enthusiasm  of  religious 
feeling,  and  of  external  ritual  observances,  prevails 
throughout  the  land.  But  more  particularly  is  the  name 
of  the  Virgin  honored  and  adored.  Ave  Maria  is  the 
salutation  of  peace  at  the  friendly  threshold,  and  the  God 
speed  to  the  wayfarer.  It  is  the  evening  orison,  when  the 
toils  of  day  are  done  ;  and  at  midnight  it  echoes  along  the 
solitary  streets  in  the  voice  of  the  watchman's  cry. 

These  and  similar  peculiarities  of  religious  faith  are 
breathing  and  moving  through  a  large  portion  of  the  devo 
tional  poetry  of  Spain.  It  is  not  only  instinct  with  religi 
ous  feeling,  but  incorporated  with  "the  substance  of 
things  not  seen."  Not  only  are  the  poet's  lipr,  touched 
with  a  coal  from  the  altar,  but  his  spirit  is  folded  in  the 
cloud  of  incense  that  rises  before  the  shrines  of  the  Virgin 
Mother,  and  the  glorious  company  of  the  saints  ami 
martyrs.  His  soul  is  not  wholly  swallowed  up  in  the  con 
templation  of  the  sublime  attributes  of  the  Eternal  Mind  ; 
but,  with  its  lamp  trimmed  and  burning,  it  goeth  out  to 
meet  the  bridgeroom,  as  if  he  were  coming  in  a  bodily 
presence. 

The  history  of  the  devotional  poetry  of  Spain  com 
mences  with  the  legendary  lore  of  Maestro  Gonzalo  do 
Berceo,  a  secular  priest,  whose  life  was  passed  in  the 
cloisters  of  a  Benedictine  convent,  and  amid  the  shadows 


1?2  THE  MOltAL  AND  DEVOTIONAL 

of  tne  thirteenth  century.  The  name  of  Berceo  stands 
foremost  on  the  catalogue  of  Spanish  poets,  for  the 
author  of  the  poem  of  the  Cid  is  unknown.  The  old 
patriarch  of  Spanish  poetry  has  left  a  monument  of  his 
existence  in  upwards  of  thirteen  thousand  alexandrines, 
celebrating  the  lives  and  miracles  of  saints  and  the  Virgin, 
as  he  found  them  written  in  the  Latin  chronicles  and 
dusty  legends  of  his  monastery.  In  embodying  these  in 
rude  verse  in  roman  paladino,  or  the  old  Spanish  romance 
tongue,  intelligible  to  the  common  people,  Fray  Gonzalo 
geems  to  have  passed  his  life.  His  writings  are  just  such 
as  we  should  expect  from  the  pen  of  a  monk  of  the  thir 
teenth  century.  They  are  more  ghostly  than  poetical ; 
and  throughout,  unction  holds  the  place  of  inspiration. 
Accordingly,  they  illustrate  very  fully  the  preceding  re 
marks  ;  and  the  more  so,  inasmuch  as  they  are  written 
with  the  most  ample  and  childish  credulity,  and  the  ut 
most  singleness  of  faith  touching  the  events  and  miracles 
described. 

The  following  extract  is  taken  from  one  of  Berceo's 
poems,  entitled  "  Yida  de  San  Millan."  It  is  a  descrip 
tion  of  the  miraculous  appearance  of  Santiago  and  San 
Millan,  mounted  on  snow-white  steeds,  and  fighting  for 
the  cause  of  Christendom,  at  the  battle  of  Simancas  in 
the  Campo  de  Toro. 

"  And  when  the  kings  were  in  the  field, — their  squadrons  in  array,— 
With  lance  in  rest  they  onward  pressed  to  mingle  in  the  fray; 
But  soon  upon  the  Christians  fell  a  terror  of  their  foes, — 
These  were  a  numerous  army, — a  little  handful  those. 

'•'  And  while  the  Christian  people  stood  in  this  uncertainty, 
Upward  to  heaven  they  turned  their  eyes,  and  fixed  their  thoughts 
on  high ; 


POETE  Y  OF  SPAIN.  1 73 

\nd  these  two  persons  they  beheld,  all  beautiful  and  bright, 
Hven  than  the  pure  new-fallen  snow  their  garments  were  mor« 
white. 

:1  They  rode  upon  two  horses  more  white  than  crystal  sheen, 
And  arms  they  bore  such  as  before  no  mortal  man  had  seen; 
The  one,  he  held  a  crosier, — a  pontiff's  mitre  wore; 
The  other  held  a  crucifix, — such  man  ne'er  saw  before. 

"  There  faces  were  angelical,  celestial  forms  had  they, — 
And  downward  through  the  fields  of  air  they  urged  their  rapid 

way; 

They  looked  upon  the  Moorish  host  with  fierce  and  angry  look, 
And  in  their  hands,  with  dire  portent,  their  naked  sabres  shook. 

"The  Christian  host,  beholding  this,  straightway  take  heart  again; 
They  fall  upon  their  bended  knees,  all  resting  on  the  plain, 
And  each  one  with  his  clenched  fist  to  smite  his  breast  begins, 
And  promises  to  God  on  high  he  will  forsake  his  sins. 

''  And  when  the  heavenly  knights    drew    near  unto   the    battle- 
ground, 

They  dashed  among  the  Moors  and  dealt  unerring  blows  around ; 
Such  deadly  havoc  there  they  made  the  foremost  ranks  along, 
A  panic  terror  spread  unto  the  hindmost  of  the  throng. 

"Together  with  these  two  good  knights,  the  champions  of  the  sky, 
The  Christians  rallied  and  began  to  smite  full  sore  and  high; 
The  Moors  raised  up  their  voices  and  by  the  Koran  swore 
That  in  their  lives  such  deadly  fray  they  ne'er  had  seen  before. 

'  Down  went  the  misbelievers, — fast  sped  the  bloody  fight, — 
Some  ghastly  and  dismembered  lay,  and  some  half  dead  with 

fright: 

Pull  sorely  they  repented  that  to  the  field  they  came, 
For  they  saw  that  from  the  battle  they  should  retreat  with  shama 

"  Another  thing  befell  them, — they  dreamed  not  of  such  woes, — 
The  very  arrows  that  the  Moors  shot  from  their  twanging  bows 


174  THE  MORAL  AND  DEVOTIONAL 

Turned  back  against  them  in  their  flight  and  wounded  theiu  «.oX 

sore, 
And  every  blow  they  dealt  the  foe  was  paid  in  drops  of  gore. 

"Now  he  that  bore  the  crozier,  and  the  papal  crown  had  on, 
Was  the  glorified  Apostle,  the  brother  of  Saint  John ; 
And  he  that  held  the  crucifix,  and  wore  the  monkish  hood, 
Was  the  holy  San  Millan  of  Cogolla's  neighborhood." 

Berceo's  longest  poem  is  entitled  Miraclos  de  Nuestra 
Senora,  "  Miracles  of  Our  Lady."  It  consists  of  nearly 
four  thousand  lines,  and  contains  the  description  of 
twenty-five  miracles.  It  is  a  complete  homily  on  the 
homage  and  devotion  due  to  the  glorious  Virgin,  Madre 
de  JJiu  Xto,  Mother  of  Jesus  Christ ;  but  it  is  written  in 
a  low  and  vulgar  style,  strikingly  at  variance  with  the 
elevated  character  of  the  subject.  Thus,  in  the  twentieth 
miracle,  we  have  the  account  of  a  monk  who  became  in 
toxicated  in  a  wine-cellar.  Having  lain  on  the  floor  till 
the  vesper-bell  aroused  him,  he  staggered  off  towards 
the  church  in  most  melancholy  plight.  The  Evil  One 
besets  him  on  the  way,  assuming  the  various  shapes  of  a 
bull,  a  dog,  and  a  lion ;  but  from  all  these  perils 
he  is  miraculously  saved  by  the  timely  intervention  of 
the  Virgin,  who,  rinding  him  still  too  much  intoxicated 
to  make  his  way  to  bed,  kindly  takes  him  by  the  hand, 
leads  him  to  his  pallet,  covers  him  with  a  blanket 
and  a  counterpane,  smooths  his  pillow,  and,  after  mak 
ing  the  sign  of  the  cross  over  him,  tells  him  to  rest  quietly, 
for  sleep  will  do  him  good. 

To  a  certain  class  of  minds  there  may  be  something  in 
teresting  and  even  affecting  in  descriptions  which  represent 
the  spirit  of  a  departed  saint  as  thus  assuming  a  corpo 
real  shape,  in  order  to  assist  and  console  human  nature 


POETR  T  OF  SPA  IN". 

cvbAi  ,ii  its  baser  infirmities  ;  but  it  ought  also  to  be  con 
sidered  how  much  such  descriptions  tend  to  strip  religion 
of  its  peculiar  sanctity,  to  bring  it  down  from  its  heavenly 
abode,  not  merely  to  dwell  among  men,  but,  like  an  im 
prisoned  culprit,  to  be  chained  to  the  derelict  of  princi 
ple,  manacled  with  the  base  desire  and  earthly  passion, 
and  forced  to  do  the  menial  offices  of  a  slave.  In  de 
scriptions  of  this  kind,  as  in  the  representations  of  our 
Saviour  and  of  sainted  spirits  in  human  shape,  execution 
must  o.!  necessity  fall  far  short  of  the  conception.  The 
handivork  cannot  equal  the  glorious  archetype,  which  is 
visible  only  to  the  mental  eye.  Painting  and  sculpture 
are  n  >t  adequate  to  the  task  of  embodying  in  a  perma 
nent  shape  the  glorious  visions,  the  radiant  forms,  the 
glir.ipses  of  heaven,  which  fill  the  imagination,  when 
purified  and  exalted  by  devotion.  The  hand  of  man 
ar consciously  inscribes  upon  all  his  works  the  sentence 
ox  imperfection,  which  the  finger  of  the  invisible  hand 
wrote  upon  the  wall  of  the  Assyrian  monarch.  From 
this  it  would  seem  to  be  not  only  a  natural  but  a  neces 
sary  conclusion,  that  all  the  descriptions  of  poetry  which 
borrow  anything,  either  directly  or  indirectly,  from  these 
bodily  and  imperfect  representations,  must  partake  of 
their  imperfection,  and  assume  a  more  earthly  and  mate 
rial  character  than  these  which  come  glowing  and  burn 
ing  from  the  more  spiritualized  perceptions  of  the  inter 
nal  sense. 

It  is  very  far  from  my  intention  to  utter  any  sweeping 
denunciation  against  the  divine  arts  of  painting  and 
sculpture  as  employed  in  the  exhibition  of  Scriptural 
scenes  and  personages.  These  I  esteem  meet  ornaments 
for  the  house  of  God  ;  though,  as  I  have  already  said, 
their  execution  cannot  equal  the  high  conceptions  of 


176  THE  MORAL  AND  DEVOTIONAL 

an  ardent  imagination,  yet,  whenever  the  hand  of  a  mas 
ter  is  visible, — when  the  marble  almost  moves  before  you, 
and  the  painting  starts  into  life  from  the  canvas, — the 
effect  upon  an  enlightened  mind  will  generally,  if  not 
universally,  be  to  quicken  its  sensibilities  and  excite  to 
more  ardent  devotion,  by  carrying  the  thoughts  beyond 
the  representations  of  bodily  suffering,  to  the  contempla 
tion  of  the  intenser  mental  agony, — the  moral  sublimity 
exhibited  by  the  martyr.  The  impressions  produced, 
however,  will  not  be  the  same  in  all  minds ;  they  will 
necessarily  vary  according  to  the  prevailing  temper  and 
complexion  of  the  mind  which  receives  them.  As  there 
is  no  sound  where  there  is  no  ear  to  receive  the  impulses 
and  vibrations  of  the  air,  so  is  there  no  moral  impression, 
—no  voice  of  instruction  from  all  the  works  of  nature, 
and  all  the  imitations  of  art, — unless  there  be  within  the 
soul  itself  a  capacity  for  hearing  the  voice  and  receiving 
the  moral  impulse.  The  cause  exists  eternally  and  uni 
versally  ;  but  the  effect  is  produced  only  when  and  where 
the  cause  has  room  to  act,  and  just  in  proportion  as  it 
has  room  to  act.  Hence  the  various  moral  impressions, 
and  the  several  degrees  of  the  same  moral  impression, 
which  an  object  may  produce  in  different  minds.  These 
impressions  will  vary  in  kind  and  in  degree  according  to 
the  acuteness  and  the  cultivation  of  the  internal  moral 
sense.  And  thus  the  representations  spoken  of  above 
might  exercise  a  very  favorable  influence  upon  an  enlight 
ened  and  well-regulated  mind,  and  at  the  same  time  a 
very  unfavorable  influence  upon  an  unenlightened  and 
superstitious  one.  And  the  reason  is  obvious.  An  en 
lightened  mind  beholds  all  things  in  their  just  propor 
tions,  and  receives  from  them  the  true  impressions  they 
are  calculated  to  convey.  It  is  not  hoodwinked, — it  ia 


POETRY  OF  SPAIX.  177 

not  shut  up  in  a  gloomy  prison,  till  it  thinks  the  walls  of 
its  own  dungeon  the  limits  of  the  universe,  and  the  reach 
of  its  own  chain  the  outer  verge  of  all  intelligence  ;  but 
it  \valks  abroad  ;  the  sunshine  and  the  air  pour  in  to  en 
lighten  and  expand  it ;  the  various  works  of  nature  are  its 
ministering  angels  ;  the  glad  recipient  of  light  and  wis 
dom,  it  develops  new  powers  and  acquires  increased  capac 
ities,  and  thus,  rendering  itself  less  subject  to  error,  assumes 
a  nearer  similitude  to  the  Eternal  Mind.  But  not  so  the 
dark  and  superstitious  mind.  It  is  filled  with  its  own  an 
tique  and  mouldy  furniture, — the  moth-eaten  tome,  the 
gloomy  tapestry,  the  dusty  curtain.  The  straggling  sun 
beam  from  without  streams  through  the  stained  window, 
and  as  it  enters  assumes  the  colors  of  the  painted  glass  ; 
while  the  half-extinguished  fire  within,  now  smouldering 
in  its  ashes,  and  now  shooting  forth  a  quivering  flame, 
casts  fantastic  shadows  through  the  chambers  of  the  soul. 
Within  the  spirit  sits,  lost  in  its  own  abstractions.  The 
voice  of  nature  from  without  is  hardly  audible  ;  her  beau 
ties  are  unseen,  or  seen  only  in  shadowy  forms,  through 
a  colored  medium,  and  with  a  strained  and  distorted 
vision.  The  invigorating  air  does  not  enter  that  myste 
rious  chamber  ;  it  visits  not  that  lonely  inmate,  who, 
breathing  only  a  close,  exhausted  atmosphere,  exhibits  in 
the  languid  frame  and  feverish  pulse  the  marks  of  linger 
ing,  incurable  disease.  The  picture  is  not  too  strongly 
sketched  ;  such  is  the  contrast  between  the  free  and  I  ho 
superstitious  mind.  Upon  the  latter,  which  has  littlo 
power  over  its  ideas, — to  generalize  them,  to  place  them 
in  their  proper  light  and  position,  to  reason  upon,  to  dis 
criminate,  to  judge  them  in  detail,  and  thus  to  arrive  at 
just  conclusions;  but,  on  the  contrary,  receives  every 
crude  and  inadequate  impression  as  it  first  presents  itself, 
12 


178  THE  MORAL  AND  DEVOTIONAL 

and  treasures  it  up  as  an  ultimate  fact, — upon  such  g 
mind,  representations  of  Scripture  -  scenes,  like  those 
mentioned  above,  exercise  an  unfavorable  influence. 
Siicli  a  niind  cannot  rightly  estimate,  it  cannot  feel,  the 
work  of  a  master  ;  and  a  miserable  daub,  or  a  still  more 
miserable  caricature  carved  in  wood,  will  serve  only  to 
increase  the  burden  which  weighs  the  spirit  down  to 
earth.  Thus,  in  the  unenlightened  mind,  these  repre 
sentations  have  u  tendency  to  sensualize  and  desecrate 
the  character  of  holy  things.  Being  brought  constantly 
before  the  eye,  and  represented  in  a  real  and  palpable 
form  to  the  external  senses,  they  lose,  by  being  made  too 
familiar,  that  peculiar  sanctity  with  which  the  mind 
naturally  invests  the  unearthly  and  invisible. 

It  is  curious  to  observe  the  influence  of  the  circum 
stances  just  referred  to  upon  the  devotional  poetry  of 
Spain.  *  Sometimes  it  exhibits  itself  directly  and  fully, 


*  The  following  beautiful  little  hymn  in  Latin,  -written  by  the 
celebrated  Francisco  Xavier,  the  friend  and  companion  of  Loyola, 
and  from  his  zeal  in  the  Eastern  missions  surnamed  the  Apostle  o;' 
the  Indias,  would  hardly  have  originated  in  any  mind  but  that  of 
one  familiar  with  the  representations  of  which  I  have  spoken  above. 

"  0  Deus  !  ego  amo  te  : 
Nee  amo  te,  ut  salves  me, 
A.ut  quia  non  amantes  te 
JEterno  pun  is  igne. 

"Tu,  tu,  mi  Jesu,  totum  me 
Amplexus  es  in  cruce. 
Tulisti  clavos,  lanceam 
Multamque  ignominiam  : 
Innumeros  dolores, 
Sudores  et  angores, 
Ac  mortem  :  et  haec  propter  me 
Ac  pro  me  peccatore. 


POETEY  OF  SPAIN.  179 

at  others  more  indirectly  and  incidentally,  but  always 
with  sufficient  clearness  to  indicate  its  origin.  Some« 
times  it  destroys  the  beauty  of  a  poem  by  a  miserable 

' '  Cur  igitur  non  amem  te, 
0  Jesu  amantissime  ? 
Non  ut  in  ccelo  salves  me, 
Aut  ne  aeternum  damnes  me, 
Nee  proemii  ullius  spe : 
Sed  sicut  tu  amasti  me, 
Sic  amo  et  amabo  te  : 
'    Solum  quia  rex  meus  es, 
Et  solum  quia  Deus  es. 
Amen." 

"  0  God  !  my  spirit  loves  but  thee  : 
Not  that  in  heaven  its  home  may  be, 
Nor  that  the  souls  which  love  not  thee 
Shall  groan  in  fire  eternally. 

"  But  thou  on  the  accursed  tree 
In  mercy  hast  embraced  me. 
For  me  the  cruel  nails,  the  spear, 
The  ignominious  scoff,  didst  bear, 
Countless,  unutterable  woes, — 
The  bloody  sweat,— death's  pangs  and  throes,-* 
These  didst  thou  bear,  all  these  for  me, 
A  sinner  and  estranged  from  thee. 

"  And  wherefore  no  affection  show, 
Jesus,  to  thee  that  lov'st  me  so  ? 
Not  that  in  heaven  my  home  may  be, 
Not  lest  I  die  eternally, — 
Nor  from  the  hopes  of  joys  above  me. 
But  even  as  thou  thyself  didst  love  me, 
So  love  I,  and  will  ever  love  thee  : 
Solely  because  my  King  art  thou, 
My  God  forevermore  as  now. 

Amen." 


180  THE  MORAL  AND  DEVOTIONAL 

Conceit ;  at  other  times  it   gives  it  the  character  of  a 
beautiful  allegory.* 

The  following  sonnets  will  serve  as  illustrations.  They 
are  from  the  hand  of  the  wonderful  Lope  de  Vega  : — 

*:  Shepherd!  that  with  thine  amorous  sylvan  song 
Hast  broken  the  slumber  that  encompassed  me, 
That  madest  thy  crook  from  the  accursed  tree 
On  which  thy  powerful  arms  were  stretched  so  long,— 

Lead  me  to  mercy's  ever-flowing  fountains, 
For  thou  my  shepherd,  guard,  and  guide  shall  be, 
I  will  obey  thy  voice,  and  wait  to  see 
Thy  feet  all  beautiful  upon  the  mountains. 

Hear,  Shepherd ! — thou  that  for  thy  flock  art  dying, 
O,  wash  away  these  scarlet  sins,  for  thou 
Rejoicest  at  the  contrite  sinner's  vow. 

0  wait! — to  thee  my  weary  soul  is  crying, — 
Wait  for  me ! — yet  why  ask  it,  when  I  see, 
With  feet  nailed  to  the  cross,  thou  art  waiting  still  for  me  ?  " 

"  Lord,  what  am  I,  that  with  unceasing  care 
Thou  didst  seek  after  me, — that  thou  didst  wait, 
Wet  with  unhealthy  dews  before  my  gate, 
And  pass  the  gloomy  nights  of  winter  there? 

*  1  recollect  but  few  instances  of  this  kind  of  figurative  poetrt 
in  our  language.  There  is,  however,  one  of  most  exquisite  beauty 
and  pathos,  far  surpassing  anything  I  have  seen  of  the  kind  in 
Spanish.  It  is  a  passage  from  Cowper. 

"  I  was  a  stricken  deer,  that  left  the  herd 
Long  since  :  witli  many  an  arrow  deep  infixt 
My  panting  side  was  charged,  when  I  withdrew 
To  seek  a  tranquil  death  in  distant  shades. 
There  was  I  found  by  one  who  had  himself 
Been  hurt  by  archers  ;  in  his  side  he  bore, 
And  in  his  hands  ar  d  feet,  the  cruel  scars. 
With  gentle  force  soliciting  the  darts, 
He  drew  them  forth,  and  healed,  and  bade  me  live." 


POETRY  OF  SPAIN.  18] 

0  strange  delusion ! — that  I  did  not  greet 
Thy  bless'd  approach !  and  0,  to  Heaven  how  lost, 
If  my  ingratitude's  unkindly  frost 
Hast  chilled  the  bleeding  wounds  upon  thy  feet! 

How  oft  my  guardian  angel  gently  cried, 
'  Soul  from  thy  casement  look  without  and  see 
How  he  persists  to  knock  and  wait  for  thee  I ' 

And  0,  how  often  to  that  voice  of  sorrow, 
'  To-morrow  we  will  open ! '  I  replied  ; 
And  when  the  morrow  came,  1  answered  still,  '  To-morrow  I ' " 

The  most  remarkable  portion  of  the  devotional  poetry 
of  the  Spaniards  is  to  be  found  in  their  sacred  dramas, 
their  Vidas  de  Santos  and  Autos  Sacramentales.  These 
had  their  origin  in  the  Mysteries  and  Moralities  of  the 
dark  ages,  and  are  indeed  monstrous  creations  of  the  im 
agination.  The  Vidas  de  Santos,  or  Lives  of  Saints,  are 
representations  of  their  miracles,  and  of  the  wonderful 
traditions  concerning  them.  The  Autos  Sacrament  ales 
have  particular  reference  to  the  Eucharist  and  the  cere 
monies  of  the  Corpus  Christ i.  In  these  theatrical  pieces 
are  introduced  upon  the  stage,  not  only  angels  and  saints, 
but  God,  the  Saviour,  the  Virgin  Mary ;  and  in  strange 
juxtaposition  with  these,  devils,  peasants,  and  kings  ;  in 
fine,  they  contain  the  strangest  medley  of  characters,  real 
and  allegorical,  which  the  imagination  can  conceive.  As 
if  this  Avere  not  enough,  in  the  midst  of  what  was  intend 
ed  as  a  solemn,  religious  celebration,  scenes  of  low  buf« 
foonery  are  often  introduced. 

The  most  remarkable  of  the  Autos  which  I  have  read 
is  La  Devocion  de  la  Cruz,  "  The  Devotion  of  the  Cross. " 
It  is  one  of  the  most  celebrated  of  Calderon's  saere<l 
dramas,  and  will  serve  as  a  specimen  of  that  class  of  writ 
ing.  As  it  will  throw  much  light  upon  this  pad  of  the 
subject,  I  shall  give  a  brief  analysis  of  it,  byway  of  illus- 


182  THE  MORAL  AND  DEVOTIONAL 

tration  to  my  foregoing  remarks.  The  piece  commences 
by  a  dialogue  between  Lisardo,  the  son  of  Curcio,  a  de 
cayed  nobleman,  and  Eusebio,  the  hero  of  the  play  and 
lover  of  Julia,  Lisardo's  sister.  Though  the  father's  ex 
travagance  has  wasted  his  estates,  Lisardo  is  deeply  of 
fended  that  Eusebio  should  aspire  to  an  alliance  with  the 
family,  and  draws  him  into  a  secluded  place  in  order  to 
settle  their  dispute  with  the  sword.  Here  the  scene 
opens,  and  in  the  course  of  the  dialogue  which  precedes 
the  combat,  Eusebio  relates  that  he  was  born  at  the  foot 
of  a  cross,  which  stood  in  a  rugged  and  desert  part  of 
those  mountains  ;  that  the  virtue  of  this  cross  preserved 
him  from  the  wild  beasts  ;  that,  being  found  by  a  peasant 
three  days  after  his  birth,  he  was  carried  to  a  neighboring 
village,  and  there  received  the  name  of  Eusebio  of  the 
Cross  ;  that,  being  thrown  by  his  nurse  into  a  well,  he 
was  heard  to  laugh,  and  was  found  floating  upon  the  top 
of  the  water,  with  his  hands  placed  upon  his  mouth  in 
the  form  of  a  cross  ;  that  the  house  in  which  he  dwelt 
being  consumed  by  fire,  he  escaped  unharmed  amid  the 
flames,  and  it  was  found  to  be  Corpus  Christ!  day  ;  and, 
in  fine,  after  relating  many  other  similar  miracles,  worked 
by  the  power  of  the  cross,  at  whose  foot  he  was  born,  he 
says  that  he  bears  its  image  miraculously  stamped  upon 
his  breast.  After  this  they  fight,  and  Lisardo  falls  mor 
tally  wounded.  In  the  next  scene,  Eusebio  has  an  inter 
view  with  Julia,  at  her  father's  house  ;  they  are  inter, 
rupted,  and  Eusebio  conceals  himself ;  Curcio  enters, 
and  informs  Julia  that  he  has  determined  to  send  her  that 
day  to  a  convent,  that  she  may  take  the  veil,  para  ser  d» 
Cristo  esposa.  While  they  are  conversing,  the  dead  body 
of  Lisardo  is  brought  in  by  peasants,  and  Eusebio  is 
declared  to  be  the  murderer.  The  scene  closes  by  the 


POETRY  OF  SPAIN.  183 

escape  of  Eusebio.  The  second  act,  or  Jornada,  discovers 
Eusebio  as  the  leader  of  a  band  of  robbers.  They  fire 
upon  a  traveller  who  proves  to  be  a  priest,  named  Alber 
to,  and  who  is  seeking  a  spot  in  those  solitudes  wherein  to 
establish  a  hermitage.  The  shot  is  prevented  from  tak 
ing  effect  by  a  book  which  the  pious  old  man  carries  in 
his  bosom,  and  which  he  says  is  a  "  treatise  on  the  true 
origin  of  the  divine  and  heavenly  tree,  on  which,  dying 
with  courage  and  fortitude,  Christ  triumphed  over  death  ; 
in  fine,  the  book  is  called  the  {  Miracles  of  the  Cross." 
They  suffer  the  priest  to  depart  unharmed,  who  in  conse 
quence  promises  Eusebio  that  he  shall  not  die  without 
confession,  but  that  wherever  he  may  be,  if  he  but  call 
upon  his  name,  he  will  hasten  to  absolve  him.  In  the 
mean  time,  Julia  retires  to  a  convent,  and  Curcio  goes 
with  an  armed  force  in  pursuit  of  Eusebio,  who  has  re 
solved  to  gain  admittance  to  Julia's  convent.  He  scales 
the  walls  of  the  convent  by  night,  and  silently  gropes  his 
way  along  the  corridor.  Julia  is  discovered  sleeping  in 
her  cell,  with  a  taper  beside  her.  He  is,  however,  de 
terred  from  executing  his  malicious  designs,  by  discover 
ing  upon  her  breast  the  form  of  a  cross,  similar  to  that 
which  he  bears  upon  his  own,  and  "  Heaven  would  not 
suffer  him,  though  so  great  an  offender,  to  lose  his  re 
spect  for  the  cross."  To  be  brief,  he  leaps  from  the  con- 
Tent-walls  and  escapes  to  the  mountains.  Julia,  count 
ing  her  honor  lost,  having  offended  God,  como  a  Dios,  y 
como  a  esposa,  pursues  him, — descends  the  ladder  from 
the  convo ni-wall,  and,  when  she  again  seeks  to  return  to 
her  cell,  finds  the  ladder  has  been  removed.  In  her  de- 
fipair,  she  accuses  Heaven  of  having  withdrawn  its  clem 
ency,  and  vows  to  perform  such  deeds  of  Avickedness  as 
shall  terrify  both  heaven  and  hell. 


184  THE  MORAL  AJSD  DEVOTIONAL. 

The  third  Jornada  transports  the  scene  back  to  the 
mountains.  Julia,  disguised  in  man's  apparel,  with  her 
face  concealed,  is  brought  to  Eusebio  by  a  party  of  the 
banditti.  She  challenges  him  to  single  combat ;  and  he 
accepts  the  challenge,  on  condition  that  his  antagonist 
.shall  declare  who  he  is.  Julia  discovers  herself  ;  and 
relates  several  horrid  murders  she  has  committed  since 
leaving  the  convent.  Their  interview  is  here  interrupted 
by  the  entrance  of  banditti,  who  inform  Eusebio  that 
Curcio,  with  an  armed  force,  from  all  the  neighboring 
villages,  is  approaching.  The  attack  commences.  Euse 
bio  and  Curcio  meet,  but  a  secret  and  mysterious  sympa 
thy  prevents  them  from  fighting  ;  and  a  great  number  of 
peasants,  coming  in  at  this  moment,  rush  upon  Eusebio 
in  a  body,  and  he  is  thrown  down  a  precipice.  There 
Curcio  discovers  him,  expiring  with  his  numerous  wounds. 
The  denouement  of  the  piece  commences.  Curcio,  moved 
by  compassion,  examines  a/  wound  in  Eusebio's  breast, 
discovers  the  mark  of  the  cross,  and  thereby  recognizes 
him  to  be  his  son.  Eusebio  expires,  calling  on  the  name 
of  Alberto,  who  shortly  after  enters,  as  if  lost  in  those 
mountains.  A  voice  from  the  dead  body  of  Eusebio  calls 
his  name.  I  shall  here  transcribe  a  part  of  the  scene. 


Eusebio.     Alberto ! 

Alberto.  Hark  ! — what  breath 

Of  fearful  voice  is  this, 
Which  uttering  my  name 
Sounds  in  my  ears  ? 

Eus.  Alberto  ! 

Alb.  Again  it  doth  pronounce 

My  name  :  methinks  the  voice 
Came  from  this  side  :  I  will 
Approach. 


POETRY  OF  SPAIN.  186 

Eus.     Alberto  ! 

Alb.      Hist  !  more  near  it  sounds. 

Thou  voice,  that  ridest  swift 

The  wind  and  utterest  my  name, 

Who  art  thou  ? 
Eus.  I  am  Eusebio. 

Come,  good  Alberto,  this  way  come 

Where  sepulchred  I  lie  ; 

Approach,  and  raise  these  branches  : 

Fear  not. 
Alb.  1  do  not  fear. 

[Discovers  the  body. 

Now  I  "behold  thee. 

Speak,  in  God's  holy  name, 

What  wouldst  thou  with  me  ! 
Eus.  In  his  name, 

My  faith,  Alberto,  call  thee. 

That  previous  to  my  death 

Thou  hearest  my  confession. 

Long  since  I  should  have  died, 

For  this  stiff  corpse  resigned 

The  disembodied  soul  ; 

But  the  strong  mace  of  death 

Smote  only,  and  dissevered  not 

The  spirit  and  the  flesh.  [Rises, 

Coir.e  then,  Alberto,  that  I  may 

Confess  my  sins,  for  oh  !  they  are 

More  than  the  sands  beside  the  sea, 

Or  motes  that  fill  the  sunbeam  . 

So  much  with  Heaven  avails 

Devotion  to  the  cross. 

Eusebio  then  retires  to  confess  himself  to  Alberto ;  and 
Curcio  afterward  relates,  that,  when  the  venerable  saint 
had  given  him  absolution,  his  body  again  fell  dead  at 
his  feet.  Julia  discovers  herself,  overwhelmed  with  the 
thoughts  of  her  incestuous  passion  for  Eiwebio  and  her 
father  crimes,  and  as  Curcio,  in  a  transport  of  indignation, 


186  THE  MORAL  AND  DEVOTIONAL 

endeavors  to  kill  her,  she  seizes  a  cross  which  stands  orei 
Eusebio's  grave,  and  with  it  ascends  to  heaven,  while 
Alberto  shouts,  gran  milagro,  and  the  curtain  falls. 

Thus  far  have  I  spoken  of  thd  devotional  poetry  of 
Spain  as  modified  by  the  peculiarities  of  religious  faith 
and  practice.  Considered  apart  from  the  dogmas  of  a 
creed,  and  as  the  expression  of  those  pure  and  elevated 
feelings  of  religion  which  are  not  the  prerogative  of  any 
one  sect  or  denomination,  but  the  common  privilege  of  all, 
it  possesses  strong  claims  to  our  admiration  and  praise.,  I 
know  of  nothing  in  any  modern  tongue  so  beautiful  as  some 
of  its  finest  passages.  The  thought  springs  heavenward 
from  the  soul, — the  language  comes  burning  from  the  lip. 
The  imagination  of  the  poet  seems  spiritualized ;  with 
nothing  of  earth,  and  all  of  heaven, — a  heaven,  like  that 
of  his  own  native  clime,  without  a  cloud,  or  vapor  of 
earth,  to  obscure  its  brightness.  His  voice,  speaking  the 
harmonious  accents  of  that  noble  tongue,  seems  to  flow 
from  the  lips  of  an  angel, — melodious  to  the  ear  and  to 
the  internal  sense, — breathing  those 

"  Effectual  whispers,  whose  still  voice 
The  soul  itself  more  feels  than  hears." 

The  following  sonnets  of  Francisco  do  Aldana,  a  writer 
remarkable  for  the  beauty  of  his  conceptions  and  the  har 
mony  of  his  verse,  are  illustrations  of  this  remark.  In 
what  glowing  language  he  describes  the  aspirations  of  the 
soul  for  its  paternal  heaven,  its  celestial  homo  !  how  beau 
tifully  he  portrays  in  a  few  lines  the  strong  defcire,  the 
ardent  longing  of  the  exiled  and  imprisoned  spirit,  to 
wing  its  flight  away  and  be  at  rest !  The  strain  bears  our 
thoughts  upward  with  it ;  it  transports  us  to  the  heav- 


POETRY  OF  SPAIN.  18? 

enly  country  ;  it  whispers  to  the  soul, — Higher,  immortal 
spirit !  higher  ! 

Clear  font  of  light  !  my  native  land  on  high, 
Bright  with  a  glory-  that  shall  never  fade  ! 
Mansion  of  truth  !  without  a  veil  or  shade, 
Thy  holy  quiet  meets  the  spirit's  eye. 

There  dwells  the  soul  in  its  ethereal  essence, 
Gasping  no  longer  for  life's  feeble  breath  ; 
But,  sentinelled  in  heaven,  its  glorious  presence 
With  pitying  eye  beholds,  yet  fears  not  death. 

Beloved  country  !  banished  from  thy  shore, 
A  stranger  in  this  prison-house  of  clay, 
The  exiled  spirit  weeps  and  sighs  for  thee  ! 

Heavenward  the  bright  perfections  I  adore 
Direct,  and  the.  sure  promise  cheers  the  way, 
That  whither  love  aspires,  there  shall  my  dwelling  be. 

0  Lord  !  that  seest  from  yon  starry  height 
Centred  in  one  the  future  and  the  past, 
Fashioned  in  thine  own  image,  see  how  fast 
The  world  obscures  in  me  what  once  was  bright  ! 

Eternal  Sun  !  the  warmth  which  thou  hast  given 
To  cheer  life's  flowery  April  fast  decays  ; 
Yet  in  the  hoary  winter  of  my  days, 
Forever  green  shall  be  my  trust  in  Heaven. 

Celestial  King  !  0,  let  thy  presence  pass 
Before  my  spirit,  and  an  image  fair 
Shall  meet  that  look  of  mercy  from  on  high, 

As  the  reflected  image  in  a  glass 
Doth  meet  the  look  of  him  who  seeks  it  there, 
And  owes  its  being  to  the  gazer's  eye. 

The  prevailing  characteristics  of  Spanish  crevotional 
poetry  are  warmth  of  imagination,  and  depth  and  sincer 
ity  of  feeling.  The  conception  is  always  striking  and 
original,  and,  when  not  degraded  by  dogmas,  and  the 
poor,  puerile  conceits  arising  from  them,  beautiful  and 


188  THE  NOKAL  AND  DEVOTIONAL 

sublime.  This  results  from  the  frame  and  temperament 
of  the  mind,  and  is  a  general  characteristic  of  the  Span 
ish  poets,  not  only  in  this  department  of  song,  but  in  all 
others.  The  very  ardor  of  imagination  which,  exercised 
upon  minor  themes,  leads  them  into  extravagance  and 
hyperbole,  when  left  to  act  in  a  higher  and  wider  sphere 
conducts  them  nearer  and  nearer  to  perfection.  When 
imagination  spreads  its  wings  in  the  bright  regions  of 
devotional  song, — in  the  pure  empyrean,  —  judgment 
should  direct  its  course,  but  there  is  no  danger  of  it  soar 
ing  too  high.  The  heavenly  land  still  lies  beyond  its  ut 
most  flight.  There  are  heights  it  cannot  reach ;  there 
are  fields  of  air  which  tire  its  wing ;  there  is  a  splendor 
which  dazzles  its  vision  ; — for  there  is  a  glory  "  which  eye 
hath  not  seen,  nor  ear  heard,  nor  hath  it  entered  into 
the  heart  of  man  to  conceive." 

But  perhaps  the  greatest  charm  of  the  devotional  poets 
of  Spain  is  their  sincerity.  Most  of  them  were  ecclesias 
tics, — men  who  had  in  sober  truth  renounced  the  reali 
ties  of  this  life  for  the  hopes  and  promises  of  another. 
We  are  not  to  suppose  that  all  who  take  holy  orders  are 
saints  ;  but  we  should  be  still  farther  from  believing  that 
all  are  hypocrites.  It  would  be  even  more  absurd  to  sup 
pose  that  none  are  sincere  in  their  professions  than  that 
all  are.  Besides,  with  whatever  feelings  a  man  may  enter 
the  monastic  life,  there  is  something  in  its  discipline  and 
privations  which  has  a  tendency  to  wean  the  mind  from 
earth,  and  to  fix  it  upon  heaven.  Doubtless  many  have 
seemingly  renounced  the  world  from  motives  of  worldly 
aggrandizement ;  and  others  have  renounced  it  because  it 
has  renounced  them.  The  former  have  carried  with 
them  to  the  cloister  their  earthly  ambition,  and  the  latter 
their  dark  misanthropy;  and  though  many  have  dail) 


POETRY  OF  SPAIN.  189 

kissed  the  cross  and  yet  grown  hoary  in  iniquity,  and 
shrived  their  souls  that  they  might  sin  more  gayly  on  - 
yet  solitude  works  miracles  in  the  heart,  and  many  whe 
uter  the  cloister  from  worldly  motives  find  it  a  school 
wherein  the  soul  may  be  trained  to  more  holy  purposes 
and  desires.     There  is  not  half  the  corruption  and  hypoc- 
M)  within  the  convent's  walls  that  the  church  bears  the 
shame  of  hiding  in  its  bosom.     Hermits  may  be   holy 
men,  though  knaves  hate  sometimes  been  hermits.  Were 
they  all  hypocrites,  who  of  old  for  their  souls'  sake  ex 
posed  their  naked  bodies  to  the  burning  sun  of  Syria  ? 
Were  they,  who  wandered  houseless  in  the  solitudes  of 
Were  they  who  dwelt  beneath  the  palm-trees 
by  the  Red  Sea?     0  no!     They  were  ignorant,   they 
were  deluded,  they  were  fanatic,  but  they  were  not  hypo- 
en  es;   if  there  be  any  sincerity  in   human  professions 
an.l  human  actions,  they  were  not  hypocrites.     During 
the  Middle  Ages,  there  was  corruption  in  the  Church  _ 
:oul,  shameful  corruption  ;  and  now  also  hypocrisy  may 
scourge  itself  in  feigned  repentance,  and  ambition  hide 
its  face  beneath  a  hood;  yet  all  is  not  therefore  rotten 
ness  that  wears  a  cowl.      .M;my  a  pure  spirit,  through 
heavenly-mmdedness,    and  an  ardent   though   mistaken 
zeal,  has  fled  from  the  the  temptations  of  the  world  to 
seek  in  solitude  and  self-communion  a  closer  walk  with 
Tod      And  not  in  vain.     They  hare  found  the  peace  they 
sought      They  have  felt,  indeed,  what  many  profess  to 
feel,  but  do  not  feel,-that  they  are  strangers  and  so- 
journers  here,  travellers  who  are  bound  for  their  home 
m  a  far  country.     It  is  this  feeling  which  I  speak  of  as 
giving  a  peculiar  charm  to  the  devotional  poetry  of  Spain 
Compare  its  spirit  with  the  spirit  which  its  authors  huvo 
exhibited  m  their  lives.     They  speak  of  having  given  up 


THE  ^OEAL  AND  DEVOTIONAL 


190 

the  world,  and  it  is  no  poetical  hyperbole  ;  they  speak  jl 
longing  to  be  free  from  the  weakness  of  the  flesh,  that 
they  may  commence  their  conversation  in  heaven,  —  and 
we  feel  that  they  had  already  begun  it  in  lives  of  peni 
tence,  meditation,  and  prayer. 

With  regard  to  the  moral  poetry  of  Spain,  I  need  not 
be  prolix  in  my  remarks.     In  common  with  the  devo 
tional,  it  possesses  the  glow  and  fervour  of  Spanish  feel 
ing,  and  so  far  exhibits  the  national  character.     At  the 
same  time,  as  I  have  already  had  occasion  to  observe,  the 
principles  of  Christian  morality  being  everywhere  the  same 
throughout  Christendom,  moral  poetry  must  everywhere 
display  to  a  great  extent  a  common  and  homogeneous 
character.     The  only  variety  it  exhibits  will  be  found,  I 
apprehend,  to  consist,  not  in  the  general  tenor  of  the 
thought,  but  in  the  tone  of  feeling  and  consequent  warmth 
of  language  in  which  the  thought  is  expressed.     In  all 
Christian  countries,  the  prevailing  thought  is  the  perish 
able  nature  of  earthly  possessions,  and  that  kind  of  con 
templative  and  philosophic  content  so  well  expressed  by 
Francisco  de  Eioja,  in  one  of  his  moral  epistles—  a  little 
nook  among  my  household  gods,  a  book  and  friend,  and 
light  slumbers,  that  neither  cares  nor  creditors  disturb  — 
these  are  enough  for  me  :  — 

Un  angulo  me  basta  entre  mis  lares, 
Un  libro  y  un  amigo  un  sueno  breve 
Que  110  perturben  deudas  ni  pesares. 

I  shall  not,  therefore,  attempt  to  show  wherein  the 
moral  poetry  of  Spain  exhibits  the  lights  and  shades  of 
national  character  ;  but  shall  close  my  essay  here,  in  order 
to  give  place  to  one  of  the  most  beautiful  poems  of  which 
Spanish  literature  can  boast. 


POETRY  OF  SPAIN.  191 

Don  Jorge  Manrique,  the  author  of  the  following  poem, 
flourished  in  the  last  half  of  the  fifteenth  century.     It  is 
a  remarkable  fact,  that  nearly  all  the  Spanish  poets  of  any 
eminence  have  been  soldiers  ;  and  that  most  of  them  have 
died  either  upon  the   field  of  battle  or  in  the  cloister. 
Jorge  Manrique  followed   the   profession   of  arms,  and 
fought  beneath  his  father's  banner.     He  died  on  the  field 
of  battle.     Mariana,  in  his  History  of  Spain,  makes  hon 
orable  mention  of  him,  as  being  present  at  the  siege  of 
Ucles  ;  and  speaks  of  him  as  "  a  youth  of  estimable  quali 
ties,  who  m  this  war  gave  brilliant  proofs  of  his  valour. 
He  died  young ;  and  was  thus  cut  off  from  exercising  and 
exhibiting  to  the  world  his  many  virtues,  and  the  light  of 
his  genius,  which  was  already  known  to  fame."     He  was 
mortally  wounded  in  a  skirmish  near  Canavete,  in  the 
year  1479. 

The  name  of  Rodrigo  Manrique,  the  father  of  the  poet 
Conde  de  Paredes  and  Maestre  de  Santiago,  is  well  known 
m  Spanish  history  and  song.     He  died  in  1476  ;  accord 
ing  to  Mariana,  in  the  town  of  Ucles ;  but  according  to  the 
poem  of  his  son,  in  Ocafia.     It  was  his  death  that  called 
forth  the  poem  upon  which  rests  the  literary  reputation 
f  the  younger  Manrique.     In  the  language  of  his  his 
torian,  "Don  Jorge  Manrique,  in  an  elegant  ode,  full  of 
poetic  beauties,  and  the  rich  embellishments  of  genius 
and  high  moral  reflections,  mourned  the  death  of  his  father 
as  with  a  funeral  hymn."   This  praise  is  not  exaggerated. 
a  poem  is  a  model  in  its  kind.    Its  conception  is  solemn 
and  beautiful ;  and  in  accordance  with  it,  the  style  moves 
on— calm,  dignified,  and  majestic. 


193  THE  MORAL  AND  DEVOTIONAL 

COPLAS  DE  DON  JORGE  MANRIQUE. 

STANZAS 

COMPOSED  BY   DON  JORGE    MANBIQUE   ON'   THE  DEATH   OP  HIS    FA1 
DON    BODR1GO. 


0  LET  the  soul  her  slumbers  break, 
Let  thought  be  quickened,  and  awake, 

Awake  to  see 

How  soon  this  life  is  past  and  gone, 
And  death  comes  softly  stealing  on, 

How  silently! 

Swiftly  our  pleasures  glide  away, 
Our  hearts  recall  the  distant  day 

With  many  sighs  ; 
The  moments  that  are  speeding  fast 
We  heed  not,  but  the  past— the  past — 

More  highly  prize. 


Onward  its  course  the  present  keeps,  - 
Onward  the  constant  current  sweeps, 

Till  life  is  done  ;— 
And  did  we  judge  of  time  aright, 
The  past  and  future  in  their  flight 

Would  be  as  one. 
Let  no  one  fondly  dream  again 
That  Hope  and  all  her  shadowy  train 

Will  not  decay  ; 

Fleeting  as  were  the  dreams  of  old, 
Remembered  like  a  tale  that's  told, 

They  pass  away. 


Our  lives  are  rivers,  gliding  free 
To  that  unfathomed,  boundless  sea^ 
The  silent  grave  ! 


POETRY  OF  SPAIN.  193 

Thither  all  earthly  pomp  and  boast 
Roll,  to  be  swallowed  up  and  lost 

In  one  dark  wave. 
Thither  the  mighty  torrents  stray, 
Thither  the  brook  pursues  its  way, 

And  tinkling  rill  ; — 
There  all  are  equal.     Side  by  side 
The  poor  man  and  the  son  of  pride 

Lie  calm  and  still. 


I  will  not  here  invoke  the  throng 
Of  orators  and  sons  of  song, 

The  deathless  few ; 
Fiction  entices  and  deceives, 
And.  sprinkled  o'er  her  fragrant  leaves, 

Lies  poisonous  dew. 
To  One  alone  my  thoughts  arise, 
The  Eternal  Truth,—  the  Good  and  Wise, 

To  Him  I  cry, 

Who  shared  on  earth  our  common  lot, 
But  the  world  comprehended  not 

His  deity. 

v. 

This  world  is  but  the  nigged  road 
Wh;       aads  us  to  the  bright  abode 

Ot  peace  above  ; 

3O  iet  us  choose  that  narrow  way  . 
Which  leads  no  traveller's  foot  astray 

From  realms  of  love. 
Our  cradle  is  the  starting  place, 
In  life  we  run  the  onward  race, 

And  reach  the  goal, 
When  in  the  mansions  of  the  blest 
Death  leaves  (<>  its  denial  rest 

The  weary  soul. 
tit 


VI. 

Bid  we  but  use  it  as  we  ought, 

This  world  would  school  each  wandering  thought 

To  its  high  state. 

Faith  wings  the  soul  beyond  the  sky, 
Up  to  that  better  world  on  high, 

For  which  we  wait. 
Yes — the  glad  messenger  of  love, 
To  guide  us  to  our  home  above 

The  Saviour  came  ; 
Born  amid  mortal  cares  and  fears, 
He  suffered  in  this  vale  of  tears 

A  death  of  shame. 

vn. 

Behold  of  what  delusive  worth 
The  bubbles  we  pursue  on  earth, 

The  shapes  we  chase 
Amid  a  world  of  treacheiy  1 
They  vanish  ere  death  shuts  the  eye, 

And  leave  no  trace  ; 

Time  steals  them  from  us, — chances  strange, 
Disastrous  accident, — and  change 

That  comes  to  all  ; — 
Even  in  the  most  exalted  state 
Relentless  sweeps  the  stroke  of  fate  ; 

The  strongest  fall. 

vni. 

Tell  me — the  charms  that  lovers  seek, 
In  the  clear  eye  and  blushing  cheek, 

The  hues  that  play 
O'er  rosy  lips  and  brow  of  snow, — 
When  hoary  age  approaches  slow, 

Ah,  where  are  they  ? 
The  cunning  skill,  the  curious  arts, 
The  glorious  strength  that  youth  imparts 

In  life's  first  stage  ; — 


POETRY  OF  SPAIN.  195 

These  shall  become  a  heavy  weight 
When  Time  swings  wide  his  outward  gate 
To  weary  age. 

IX. 

The  noble  blood  of  Gothic  name 
Heroes  emblazoned  high  to  fame 

In  long  array ; 

How,  in  the  onward  course  of  time 
The  landmarks  of  that  race  sublime 

Were  swept  away  1 
Some,  the  degraded  slaves  of  lust, 
Prostrate  and  trampled  in  the  dust, 

Shall  rise  no  more  ; 
Others  by  guilt  and  crime  maintain 
The  escutcheon  that,  without  a  stain, 

Their  fathers  bore. 

x. 

Wealth  and  the  high  estates  of  pride, 
With  what  untimely  speed  they  glide, 

How  soon  depart  ! 
Bid  not  the  shadowy  phantoms  stay, 
The  vassals  of  a  mistress  they 

Of  fickle  heart. 

These  gifts  in  fortune's  hand  are  found  ; 
Her  swift-revolving  wheel  turns  round, 

And  they  are  gone  ! 
No  rest  the  inconstant  goddess  knows, 
But  changing,  and  without  repose, 

Still  hurries  on. 

XI. 

Even  could  the  hand  of  avarice  save 
Its  gilded  baubles  till  the  grave 

Reclaimed  its  prey ; 
Let  none  on  such  poor  hopes  rely, 
Life  like  an  empty  dream  flits  by, 

And  where  are  they  ? 


190  TEE  MORAL  AND  DEVOTIONAL 

Earthly  desires  and  sensual  lust 

Are  passions  springing  from  the  dust,— 

They  fade  and  die  ; 
But  in  the  life  beyond  the  tomb 
They  seal  the  immortal  spirit's  doom 

Eternally  ! 

xn. 

The  treasures  and  delights  which  mask 
In  treacherous  smiles  life's  serious  task, 

What  are  they  all 
But  the  fleet  couriers  of  the  chase, 
And  death  an  ambush  in  the  race 

In  which  we  fall  ? 
No  foe,  no  dangerous  pass  we  heed, 
Brook  no  delay — but  onward  speed 

"With  loosened  rein  ; 
And  when  the  fatal  snare  is  near, 
We  strive  to  check  our  mad  career, 

But  strive  in  vain. 

xm. 

Could  we  new  charms  to  age  impart, 
And  fashion  with  a  cunning  art 

The  human  face, 

As  we  can  clothe  the  soul  with  light, 
And  make  the  glorious  spirit  bright 

With  heavenly  grace, — 
How  busily  each  passing  hour 
Should  we  exert  that  magic  power  ! 

What  ardour  show, 
To  deck  the  sensual  slave  of  sin, 
Yet  leave  the  freeborn  soul  within 

In  weeds  of  woe  ! 

XIV. 

Monarchs,  the  powerful  and  the  strong, 
Famous  in  history  and  in  song 
Of  olden  time, 


POETRY  OF  SPAIN. 

Saw,  by  the  stern  decrees  of  fate, 
Their  kingdoms  lost,  and  desolate 

Their  race  sublime. 

Who  is  the  champion?  who  the  strong? 
Pontiff  and  priest,  and  sccptered  throng? 

On  these  shall  fall 
As  heavily  the  hand  of  death, 
As  when  it  stays  the  shepherd's  breath 

Beside  his  stall. 

xv. 

I  speak  not  of  the  Trojan  name. 
Neither  its  glory  nor  its  shame 

Has  met  our  eyes  ; 

Nor  of  Rome's  great  and  glorious  dead, 
Though  we  have  heard  so  oft  and  read 

Their  histories. 
Little  avails  it  now  to  know 
Of  ages  past  so  long  ago, 

Nor  how  they  rolled  ; 
Our  theme  shall  be  of  yesterday, 
Which  to  oblivion  sweeps  away 

Like  days  of  old. 

XVI. 

Where  is  the  King  Don  Juan  ?    Where 
Each  royal  prince  and  noble  heir 

Of  Arragon  ? 

Where  are  the  courtly  gallantries  ? 
The  deeds  of  love  and  high  emprise 

In  battle  done  ? 

Tournay  and  joust,  that  charm  the  eye, 
And  scarf  and  gorgeous  panoply, 

And  nodding  plume  ; 
What  were  they  but  a  pageant  scene  ? 
What  but  the  garlands  gay  and  green 

That  deck  the  tomb  ? 


198  THE  MORAL  AND  DEVOTIONAL 

xvn. 

Where  are  the  high-born  dames,  and  where 
Their  gay  attire,  and  jewelled  hair, 

And  odours  sweet  ? 

Where  are  the  gentle  knights,  that  came 
To  kneel  and  breathe  love's  ardent  flame 

Low  at  their  feet  ? 
Where  is  the  song  of  Troubadour  ; 
Where  are  the  lute  and  gay  tambour 

They  loved  of  yore  ? 
Where  is  the  mazy  dance  of  old, 
The  flowing  robes,  inwrought  with  gold, 

The  dancers  wore  ? 

XVIII. 

And  he  who  next  the  sceptre  swayed, 
Henry,  whose  royal  court  displayed 

Such  power  and  pride  ; 
0,  in  what  winning  smiles  arrayed, 
The  world  its  various  pleasures  laid 

His  throne  beside  ! 
But  oh  I  how  false  and  full  of  guile, 
That  world,  which  wore  so  soft  a  smile 

But  to  betray  ! 

She  that  had  been  his  friend  before, 
Now  from  the  fated  monarch  tore 

Her  charms  away. 

XIX. 

The  countless  gifts, — the  stately  walls,— 
The  royal  palaces  and  halls 

All  filled  with  gold  ; 
Plate  with  armorial  bearings  wrought, 
Chambers  with  ample  treasures  fraught 

Of  wealth  untold ; 

The  noble  steeds,  and  harness  bright, 
And  gallant  lord,  and  stalwart  knight 

In  rich  array, — 


POETRY  OF  SPAIN.  199 

Where  shall  we  seek  them  now  ?    Alas  ! 
Like  the  bright  dew-drops  on  the  grass 
They  passed  away. 

xx. 

His  brother,  too,  whose  factious  zeal 
Usurped  the  sceptre  of  Castile, 

Unskilled  to  reign  ; 
What  a  gay,  brilliant  court  had  he, 
When  all  the  flower  of  chivalry 

Was  in  his  train  ! 

But  he  was  mortal  ;  and  the  breath 
That  flamed  from  the  hot  forge  of  death 

Blasted  his  years  ; 
Eternal  providence  !  by  thee 
The  flame  of  earthly  majesty 

Was  quenched  in  tears  ! 

XXI. 

Spain's  haughty  Constable, — the  great 
And  gallant  Master, — cruel  fate 

Stripped  him  of  all. 
Breathe  not  a  whisper  of  his  pride, — 
He  on  the  gloomy  scaffold  died, 

Ignoble  fall. 

The  countless  treasures  of  his  care 
Hamlets  and  villas  green  and  fair, 

His  mighty  power, — 
What  were  they  all  but  grief  and  shame, 
Tears  and  a  broken  heart, — when  cam* 

The  parting  hour ! 

XXII. 

His  other  brothers  proud  and  high, 
Masters,  who  in  prosperity 

Might  rival  kings  ; 
Who  made  the  bravest  and  the  best 
The  bondsmen  of  their  high  behest 

Their  underlings  ; 


200  THE  MORAL  AND  DEVOTIONAL 

What  was  their  prosperous  estate, 
When  high  exalted  and  elate 

With  power  and  pride  ? 
What,  but  a  transient  gleam  of  light, 
A  name,  which,  glaring  at  its  height, 

Grew  dim  and  died  1 

XXTTT, 

So  many  a  duke  of  royal  name, 
Marquis  and  count  of  spotless  fame, 

And  baron  brave, 

That  might  the  sword  of  L-rnpii-e  wield-^ 
All  these,  0  Death,  hast  tUou  concealed 

In  the  dark  graves ! 
Their  deeds  of  mercy  aud  of  arms 
In  peaceful  days,  or  war's  alarms, 

When  thou  di/st  show, 
0  Death,  thy  stem  and  angry  face, 
One  stroke  of  thy  ail  powerful  maco 

Can  ovevtnrow. 


Unnumbered  hosts  that  threaten  nigb 
Pennon  and  standard  flaunting  high, 

And  flag  displayed  ; 
High  battlements  entrenched  around, 
Bastion,  and  moated  wall,  and  mount^ 

An<3  palisade, 

And  covered  trench,  secure  and  deep, — 
All  these  cannot  one  victim  keep, 

0  Death,  from  thee  ; 
When  thou  dost  battle  in  thy  wrath, 
And  thy  strong  shafts  pursue  their  path 

Unerringly. 

xxv. 

0  world  !  so  few  the  years  we  live, 
Would  that  tbe  life  which  thou  dost  give 
Were  life  indeed  1 


POETRY  OF  SPAIN.  201 

But  oh,  thy  sorrows  fall  so  fast, 
Our  happiest  hour  is  when  at  last 

The  soul  is  freed. 

Our  days  are  covered  o'er  with  grief, 
And  sorrows  neither  fewn  or  brief, 

Vail  all  in  gloom  ; 
Left  desolate  of  real  good, 
Within  this  cheerless  solitude 

No  pleasures  bloom. 

XXVI. 

Thy  pilgrimage  begins  in  tears, 
And  ends  in  bitter  doubts  and  fears, 

Or  dark  despair  ; 
Midway  so  many  toils  appear, 
That  he  who  lingers  longest  here 

Knows  most  of  care. 

Thy  goods  are  bought  with  many  a  groan, 
By  the  hot  sweat  of  toil  alone, 

And  weary  hearts. 
Fleet-footed  is  the  approach  of  woe, 
But  with  a  lingering  step  and  slow, 

Its  form  departs. 


xxvu. 

And  he,  the  good  man's  shield  and  shade, 
To  whom  all  hearts  their  homage  paid, 

As  Virtue's  son, — 
Roderick  Manrique, — he  whose  name 
Is  written  on  the  scroll  of  fame 

Spain's  Champion  : 
His  signal  deeds  and  prowess  high 
Demands  no  pompous  eulogy, — 

Ye  saw  his  deeds  ! 

Why  should  their  praise  in  verse  be  sung  ? 
The  name  that  dwells  on  every  tongue 

No  minstrel  needs. 


802  THE  MORAL  AND  DEVOTIONAL 

xxvm. 

To  friends  a  friend  ; — how  kind  to  all 
The  vassals  of  this  ancient  hall 

And  feudal  fief  ! 
To  fo os  how  stern  a  foe  was  he  ! 
And  to  the  valiant  and  the  free 

How  brave  a  chief  ! 

What  prudence  with  the  old  and  wis«  ; 
What  grace  in  useful  gayeties; 

In  all  how  sage  ! 
Benignant  to  the  serf  and  slave, 
He  showed  the  base  and  falsely  brays 

A  lion's  rage. 

XXIX. 

His  was  Octavian's  prosperous  star, 
The  rush  of  Caesar's  conquering  car 

At  battle's  call. 

His  Scipio's  virtue  ;  his  the  skill 
And  the  indomitable  will 

Of  Hannibal. 

His  was  a  Trojan's  goodness, — his 
A  Titus'  noble  charities 

And  righteous  laws  : 
His  the  Archasan's  arm  ;  the  might 
Of  Tuliy  to  maintain  the  right 

In  truth's  just  cause. 

XXX. 

The  clemency  of  Antonine, 
Aurelius'  countenance  divine, 

Firm,  gentle,  still  ; 
The  eloquence  of  Adrian, 
And  Theodosius'  love  to  man, 

And  generous  will. 
In  tented  field  and  bloody  fray, 
An  Alexander's  vigorous  sway, 

And  stern  command  ; 


POETRY  OF  SPAIN.  203 

The  faith  of  Constantine  ;  ay,  more, 
The  fervent  love  Camillas  bore 
His  native  land. 

XXXI. 

He  left  no  well-filled  treasury, — 
He  heaped  no  pile  of  riches  high, 

No  massive  plate  ; 

He  fought  the  Moors  ;  and  in  their  fall, 
Villa,  and  tower,  and  casteled  wall 

Were  his  estate. 

Upon  the  hard  fought  battle-ground, 
Brave  steeds  and  gallant  riders  found 

A  common  grave  ; 

And  there  the  warrior's  hand  did  gain. 
The  rents  and  the  long  vassal  train 

The  conquered  gave. 

XXXII. 

And  if  of  old  his  halls  displayed 
The  honored  and  exalted  grade 

His  worth  had  gained, 
So  in  the  dark  disastrous  hour, 
Brothers  and  bondmen  of  his  power 

His  rank  sustained. 
After  high  deeds,  not  left  untold, 
In  the  stern  warfare,  which  of  old 

'Twas  his  to  share, 

Such  noble  leagues  he  made — that  more 
And  fairer  regions  than  before, 

His  guerdon  were. 

XXXIII. 

These  are  the  records,  half  effaced, 
Which  with  the  hand  of  youth  he  traced 

On  history's  page  ; 
But  with  fresh  victories  he  drew 
Each  fading  character  anew, 

In  his  old  age. 


THE  MORAL  AND  DEVO'J  I1) SAL 

By  his  unrivalled  skill, — by  great 
And  veteran  service  to  the  State, 

By  worth  adored  ; 
He  stood  in  his  high  dignity 
The  proudest  knight  of  chivalry, 

Knight  of  the  sword. 

XXXIV. 

He  found  his  villas  and  domains 
Beneath  ;i  tyrant's  galling  chains, 

And  cruel  power ; 
But,  by  fierce  battle  and  blockade, 
Soon  his  own  banner  was  displayed 

From  every  tower. 
By  the  tried  valour  of  his  hand 
His  monarch  and  his  native  land 

Were  nobly  served  : 
Let  Portugal  repeat  the  story, 
And  proud  Castile,  who  shared  the  glory 

His  arms  deserved. 

XXXV. 

And  when  so  oft  for  weal  or  woe 
His  life  upon  one  fatal  throw 

Had  been  laid  down, 
When  he  had  served  with  patriot  zeal, 
Beneath  the  banner  of  Castile, 

His  sovereign's  crown, 
And  done  such  deeds  of  valour  strong 
That  neither  history  nor  song 

Can  count  them  all, 
Then  to  Ocana's  castled  rock, 
Death  at  his  portal  comes  to  knock, 

With  sudden  call, — 

xxxvi. 

Saying,  "  Good  cavalier,  prepare 
To  leava  this  world  of  toil  and  care 
With  joyful  mien  ; 


POETRY  OF  SPAIN.  205 

Let  thy  strong  heart  of  steel  this  day 
Put  on  its  armour  for  the  fray, — 

The  closing  scene. 

Since  thou  hast  been  in  battle  strife 
So  prodigal  of  health  and  life 

For  earthly  fame, 
Let  virtue  nerve  thy  heart  again, 
Which  on  the  last  stern  battle  plain 

Repeats  thy  name. 

xxxvn. 

cs  Think  not  the  struggle  that  draws  near 
Too  terrible  for  man, — nor  fear 

To  meet  the  foe  ; 
Nor  let  thy  noble  spirit  grieve, 
Its  life  of  glorious  fame  to  leave 

On  earth  below. 
A  life  of  honor  and  of  worth 
Has  no  eternity  on  earth, — 

'Tis  but  a  name  ! 
And  yet  its  glory  far  exceeds 
That  base  and  sensual  life  which  lead* 

To  want  and  shame. 

xxx  vm. 

"  The  eternal  life  beyond  the  sky 
Wealth  cannot  purchase,  nor  the  high 

And  proud  estate  : 

The  soul  in  dalliance  laid, — the  spirit 
Corrupt  with  sin  shall  not  inherit 

A  joy  so  great. 

But  the  good  monk  in  cloistered  cell 
Shall  gain  it  by  his  book  and  bell, 

His  prayers  and  tears  ; 
And  the  brave  knight,  whose  arm  endurts 
Fierce  battle,  and  against  the  Moors 

His  standard  rears. 


206  THE  MORAL  AND  DEVOTIONAL 

XXXIX. 

"  And  thou,  brave  knight  -whose  hand  has  poured 
The  life  blood  of  the  Pagan  horde 

O'er  all  the  land, 

In  heaven  shalt  thou  receive  at  length 
The  guerdon  of  thine  earthly  strength 

And  dauntless  hand. 
Cheered  onward  by  this  promise  sure, 
Strong  in  the  faith,  entire  and  pure 

Thou  dost  profess  ; 
Depart, — thy  hope  is  certainty, — 
The  third — the  better  life  on  high 

Shalt  thou  possess. 

XL. 

'  0  death,  no  more,  no  more  delay  ; 
My  spirit  longs  to  flee  away, 

And  be  at  rest. 

The  will  of  heaven  my  will  shall  be  ; 
I  bow  to  the  divine  decree, 

To  God's  behest. 
My  soul  is  ready  to  depart, 
No  thought  rebels,  the  obedient  heart 

Breathes  forth  no  sigh  ; 
The  wish  on  earth  to  linger  still 
Were  vain,  when  'tis  God's  sovereign  will 

That  we  shall  die. 

xo. 

"  0  Thou,  that  for  our  sins  didst  take 
A  human  form  and  humbly  make 

Thy  home  on  earth  ; 
Thou,  that  to  thy  divinity 
A  human  nature  didst  ally 

By  mortal  birth, — 
And  in  that  form  didst  suffer  here, 
Torment,  and  agony,  and  fear. 

So  patiently  ; 


POETRY  OF  SPAIN.  207 

By  thy  redeeming  grace  alone, 
And  not  for  merits  of  my  own, 
O  pardon  me  !  " 

XLII. 

As  thus  the  dying  warrior  prayed 
Without  one  gathering  mist  or  shad* 

Upon  his  mind  ; 
Encircled  by  his  family, 
Watched  by  affection's  gentle  eye, 

So  soft  and  kind — 
His  soul  to  Him  who  gave  it  rose  ;— 
God  lead  it  to  its  long  repose, 

Its  glorious  rest  ! 

And  though  the  warrior's  sun  has  set, 
Its  light  shall  linger  round  us  yet, 

Bright,  radiant,  blest. 


THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY. 

"  If  thou  vouchsafe  to  read  this  treatise,  it  shall  seem  no  otherwise  to  thee 
than  the  way  to  an  ordinary  traveller,— sometimes  fair,  sometimes  foul ;  here 
champaign,  there  enclosed  ;  barren  in  one  place,  better  soyle  in  another  ;  by 
woods,  groves,  hills,  dales,  plains,  I  shall  lead  thee." 

BURTON'S  ANATOMIE  OF  MELANCHOLY. 

rpHE  glittering  spires  and  cupolas  of  Madrid  have  sunk 
-L    behind  me.     Again  and  again  I  have  turned  to  take 
a  parting  look,  till  at  length  the  last  trace  of  the  city  has 
disappeared,  and  I  gaze  only  upon  the  sky  above  it. 

And  now  the  sultry  day  is  passed  ;  the  freshening  twi 
light  falls,  and  the  moon  and  the  evening  star  are  in  the 
sky.  This  river  is  the  Zarama.  This  noble  avenue  of 
trees  leads  to  Aranjuez.  Already  its  lamps  begin  to 
twinkle  in  the  distance.  The  hoofs  of  our  weary  mules 
clatter  upon  the  wooden  bridge  ;  the  public  square  opens 
before  us  ;  yonder,  in  the  moonlight,  gleam  the  walls  of 
the  royal  palace,  and  near  it,  with  a  rushing  sound,  fall 
the  waters  of  the  Tagus. 


WE  have  now  entered  the  vast  and  melancholy  plains 
of  La  Mancha,— a  land  to  which  the  genius  of  Cervantes 
has  given  a  vulgo-classic  fame.  Here  are  the  windmills, 
as  of  'old ;  every  village  has  its  Master  Nicholas,— every 
yeiita  its  Maritornes.  Wondrous  strong  are  the  spells  of 
fiction  !  A  few  years  pass  away,  and  history  becomes  ro 
mance,  and  romance,  history.  To  the  peasantry  of  Spain, 
208 


THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY.  209 

Don  Quixote  and  his  squire  are  historic  personages.  They 
believe  that  such  characters  once  existed  ;  and  woe  betide 
the  luckless  wight  who  unwarily  takes  the  name  of  Dul- 
cinea  upon  his  lips  within  a  league  of  El  Toboso  !  The 
traveller,  too,  yields  himself  to  the  delusion  ;  and  as  he 
traverses  the  arid  plains  of  La  Mancha,  pauses  with  will- 
ing  credulity  to  trace  the  footsteps  of  the  mad  Hidalgo, 
with  his  "  velvet  breeches  on  a  holiday,  and  slippers  of 
the  same."  The  high-road  from  Aranjuez  to  Cordova 
crosses  and  recrosses  the  knight-errant's  path.  Between 
Manzanares  and  Valdepenas  stands  the  inn  where  he  was 
dubbed  a  knight;  to  the  westward  lies  the  scene  of  his 
tournament  with  the  barber ;  to  the  southward  the  Venta 
de  Cardinas,  where  he  met  Maritornes  and  the  Princess 
Micomicona,— and  just  beyond  rises  the  Sierra  Morena, 
where  he  did  penance,  like  the  knights  of  olden  time. 

For  my  own  part  I  confess  that  there  are  seasons  when 
I  am  willing  to  be  the  dupe  of  my  own  imagination  ;  and 
if  this  harmless  folly  but  lends  its  wings  to  a  dull-paced 
hour,  I  am  even  ready  to  believe  a  fairy  tale. 


the  fourth  day  of  our  journey  we  dined  at  Manza 
nares,  in  an  old  and  sombre-looking  inn,  which,  I  think, 
some  centuries  back,  must  have  been  the  dwelling  of  a 
grandee.  A  wide  gateway  admitted  us  into  the  inn-yard, 
which  was  a  paved  court,  in  the  centre  of  the  edifice,  sur 
rounded  by  a  colonnade,  and  open  to  the  sky  above.  Be 
neath  this  colonnade  we  were  shaved  by  the  village  barber, 
a  supple,  smooth-faced  Figaro,  with  a  brazen  laver  and  a 
gray  inoniera  cap.  There,  too,  we  dined  in  the  open  air, 
with  brojul  as  white  as  snow,  and  the  rich,  red  wine  of 

14 


210  THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY. 

Valdcpefias  ;  and  there,  in  the  listlessness  of  after-dinner, 
smoked  the  sleep-inviting  cigar,  while  in  the  court-yard 
before  us  the  muleteers  danced  a  fandango  with  the  maids 
of  the  inn,  to  the  loud  music  which  three  blind  musicians 
drew  from  a  violin,  a  guitar,  and  a  clarionet.  When  this 
scene  was  over,  and  the  blind  men  had  groped  their  way 
oiit  of  the  yard,  I  fell  into  a  delicious  slumber,  from 
which  I  was  soon  awakened  by  music  of  another  kind.  It 
was  a  clear,  youthful  voice,  singing  a  national  song  to 
the  sound  of  a  guitar.  I  opened  my  eyes,  and  near  me 
stood  a  tall,  graceful  figure,  leaning  against  one  of  the 
pillars  of  the  colonnade,  in  the  attitude  of  a  serenader. 
His  dress  was  that  of  a  Spanish  student.  He  wore  a 
black  gown  and  cassock,  a  pair  of  shoes  made  of  an 
ex-pair  of  boots,  and  a  hat  in  the  shape  of  a  half-moon, 
with  the  handle  of  a  wooden  spoon  sticking  out  on  one 
side  like  a  cockade.  When  he  had  finished  his  song,  we 
invited  him  to  the  remnant  of  a  Vich  sausage,  a  bottle  of 
Valdepenas,  bread  at  his  own  discretion,  and  a  pure 
Havana  cigar.  The  stranger  made  a  leg,  and  accepted 
these  signs  of  good  company  with  the  easy  air  of  a  man  who 
is  accustomed  to  earn  his  livelihood  by  hook  or  by  crook  ; 
and  as  the  wine  was  of  that  stark  and  generous  kind  which 
readily  •"  ascends  one  into  the  brain,"  our  gentleman  with 
the  half -moon  hat  grew  garrulous  and  full  of  anecdote, 
and  soon  told  us  his  own  story,  beginning  with  his  birth 
and  parentage,  like  the  people  in  Gil  Bias. 

"I  am  the  son  of  a  barber," quoth  he  ;  "  and  first  saw 
the  light  some  twenty,  years  ago,  in  the  great  city  of  Ma 
drid.  At  a  very  early  age,  I  was  taught  to  do  something 
for  myself,  and  began  my  career  of  gain  by  carrying  a, 
Blow-match  in  the  Prado,  for  the  gentlemen  to  light  their 
cigars  with,  and  catching  the  wax  that  dropped  from  the 


THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY.  211 

friars''    Capers  at  funerals  and   other    religious    proces 
sions. 

"  At  school  I  was  noisy  and  unruly ;  and  was  finally 
expelled  for  hooking  the  master's  son  with  a  pair  of  ox- 
horns,  which  I  had  tied  to  my  head,  in  order  to  personate 
the  bull  in  a  mock  bull-fight.  Soon  after  this  my  father 
died,  and  I  went  to  live  with  my  maternal  uncle,  a  curate 
in  Fuencarral.  He  was  a  man  of  learning,  and  resolved 
that  I  should  be  like  him.  He  set  his  heart  upon  making 
a  physician  of  me  ;  and  to  this  end  taught  me  Latin  and 
Greek. 

"In  due  time  I  was  sent  to  the  University  of  Alcala. 
Here  a  new  world  opened  before  me.  What  novelty, — 
what  variety,  —  what  excitement  !  But,  alas  !  three 
months  were  hardly  gone,  when  news  came  that  my 
worthy  uncle  had  passed  to  a  better  world.  I  was  now 
left  to  shift  for  myself.  I  was  penniless,  and  lived  as  I 
could,  not  as  I  would.  I  became  a  sopista,  a  soup-eater, 
— a  knight  of  the  wooden  spoon.  I  see  you  do  not  un 
derstand  me.  In  other  words,  then,  I  became  one  of  that 
respectable  body  of  charity  scholars  who  go  armed  with 
their  wooden  spoons  to  eat  the  allowance  of  eleemosynary 
soup  which  is  daily  served  out  to  them  at  the  gate  of  the 
convents.  I  had  no  longer  house  nor  home.  But  neces 
sity  is  the  mother  of  invention.  I  became  a  hanger-on  of 
those  who  were  more  fortunate  than  myself ;  studied  m 
other  people's  books,  slept  in  other  people's  beds,  and 
breakfasted  at  other  people's  expense.  This  course  of  life 
has  been  demoralizing,  but  it  has  quickened  my  wits  to  a 
wonderful  degree. 

"  Did  you  ever  read  the  life  of  Gran  Tacafio,  by  Quc- 
vedo  ?  In  the  first  book  you  have  a  faithful  picture  of 
life  in  a  Spanish  University.  What  was  true  in  his  day  is 


212  THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY. 

true  in  ours.  Oh,  Alcala  !  Alcala  !  if  your  wails  had 
tongues  as  well  as  ears,  what  tales  could  they  repeat ! 
what  midnight  frolics  !  what  madcap  revelries  !  what 
scenes  of  merriment  and  mischief  !  How  merry  is  a  stu  • 
dent's  life,  and  yet  how  changeable  !  Alternate  feasting 
and  fasting,  —  alternate  Lent  and  Carnival, — alternate 
want  and  extravagance  !  Care  given  to  the  winds, — no 
thought  beyond  the  passing  hour ;  yesterday,  forgotten, 
— to-morro\v,  a  word  in  an  unknown  tongue  ! 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  raising  the  dead  ?  not  literally, 
— but  such  as  the  student  raised,  when  he  dug  for  the 
soul  of  the  licentiate  Pedro  Garcias,  at  the  fountain  be 
tween  Penafiel  and  Salamanca, — money?  No  ?  Well,  it 
is  done  after  this  wise.  Gambling,  you  know,  is  our  great 
national  vice  ;  and  then  gamblers  are  so  dishonest !  Now, 
our  game  is  to  cheat  the  cheater.  We  go  at  night  to 
some  noted  gaming-house, — five  or  six  of  us  in  a  body. 
We  stand  around  the  table,  watch  those  that  are  at  play, 
and  occasionally  put  in  a  trifle  ourselves  to  avoid  suspicion. 
At  length  the  favorable  moment  arrives.  Some  eager 
player  ventures  a  large  stake.  I  stand  behind  his  chair. 
He  wins.  As  quick  as  thought,  I  stretch  my  arm  over 
his  shoulder  and  seize  the  glittering  prize,  saying  very 
coolly,  'I  have  won  at  last.'  My  gentleman  turns  round 
in  a  passion,  and  I  meet  his  indignant  glance  with  a  look 
of  surprise.  He  storms,  and  I  expostulate  ;  he  menaces, 
—I  heed  his  menaces  no  more  than  the  buzzing  of  a  fly 
that  has  burnt  his  wings  in  my  lamp.  He  calls  the  whole 
table  to  witness  ;  but  the  whole  table  is  busy,  each  with 
his  own  gain  or  loss,  and  there  stand  my  comrades,  all 
loudly  asserting  that  the  stake  was  mine.  What  can  he 
do  ?  there  was  a  mistake  ;  he  swallows  the  affront  as  best 
he  may,  and  we  bear  away  the  booty.  This  we  call  rais- 


THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY.  213 

ing  the  dead.  You  say  it  is  disgraceful, — dishonest.  Our 
maxim  is,  that  all  is  fair  among  sharpers  ;  Baylar  al  son 
que  se  toca, — dance  to  any  tune  that  is  fiddled.  Besides, 
as  I  said  before,  poverty  is  demoralizing.  One  loses  the 
nice  distinctions  of  right  and  wrong,  of  meum  and  tuuin. 

"Thus  merrily  pass  the  hours  of  term-time.  When 
the  summer  vacations  come  round,  I  sling  my  guitar  over 
my  shoulder,  and  with  a  light  heart,  and  a  lighter  pocket, 
scour  the  country,  like  a  strolling  piper  or  a  mendicant 
friar.  Like  the  industrious  ant,  in  summer  I  provide  for 
winter  ;  for  in  vacation  we  have  time  for  reflection,  and 
make  the  great  discovery,  that  there  is  a  portion  of  time 
called  the  future.  I  pick  np  a  trifle  here  and  a  trifle 
there,  in  all  the  towns  and  villages  through  which  I  pass, 
and  before  the  end  of  my  tour  I  find  myself  quite  rich — 
for  the  son  of  a  barber.  This  we  call  the  vida  tunantesca, — 
a  rag-tag-and-bobtail  sort  of  life.  And  yet  the  vocation 
is  as  honest  as  that  of  a  begging  Franciscan.  Why  not  ? 

"  And  now,  gentlemen,  having  dined  at  your  expense, 
with  your  leave  I  will  put  thia  loaf  of  bread  and  the 
remains  of  this  excellent  Vich  sausage  into  my  pocket, 
and,  thanking  you  for  your  kind  hospitality,  bid  you  a 
good  afternoon.  God  be  with  you,  gentlemen  ! " 


IN  general,  the  aspect  of  La  Ma^jha  is  desolate  and 
sad.  Around  you  lies  a  parched  an^  sunburnt  plain, 
which,  like  the  ocean,  has  no  limits  bet1  the  sky;  and 
straight  before  you,  for  many  a  weary  league,  runs  the  dust  y 
and  level  road,  without  the  shade  of  a  sing1')  tree.  The 
villages  you  pass  through  are  poverty-stricken  and  half- 
depopulated  ;  and  the  squalid  inhabitants  wea/  a  look  of 
misery  that  makes  the  heart  ache.  Every  league  or  two. 


214  THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY. 

the  ruins  of  a  post-house,  or  a  roofless  cottage  with  shat* 
tered  windows  and  blackened  walls,  tells  a  sad  tale  of  the 
lust  war.  It  was  there  that  a  little  band  of  peasantry  made 
a  desperate  stand  against  the  French,  and  perished  by  the 
bullet,  the  sword,  or  the  bayonet.  The  lapse  of  many 
years  has  not  changed  the  scene,  nor  repaired  the  battered 
wall ;  and  at  almost  every  step  the  traveller  may  pause 
and  exclaim  : — 

"  Here  was  the  camp,  the  watch-flame,  and  the  host ; 
Here  the  bold  peasant  stormed  the  dragon's  nest." 

From  Valdepenas  southward  the  country  wears  a  more 
lively  and  picturesque  aspect.  The  landscape  breaks  into 
hill  and  valley,  covered  with  vineyards  and  olive-fields  ; 
and  before  you  rise  the  dark  ridges  of  the  Sierra  Morena, 
lifting  their  sullen  fronts  into  a  heaven  all  gladness  and 
sunshine.  Ere  long  you  enter  the  wild  mountain-pass  of 
Despena-Perros.  A  sudden  turn  in  the  road  brings  you 
to  a  stone  column,  surmounted  by  an  iron  cross,  marking 
the  boundary  line  between  La  Mancha  and  Andalusia. 
Upon  one  side  of  this  column  is  carved  a  sorry-looking 
face,  not  unlike  the  death's-heads  which  grin  at  you  from 
the  tombstones  of  a  country  church-yard.  Over  it  is 
written  this  inscription  :  "EL  VERDADERO  EETRATO  DE 
LA  SANTA  CAR  A  DEL  DIGS  DE  XAEN," — The  true  portrait 
of  the  holy  countenance  of  the  God  of  Xaen  !  I  was  so 
much  struck  with  this  strange  superscription  that  J 
stopped  to  copy  it. 

"Do  you  really  believe  that  this  is  what  it  pretends  to 
be  ?"  said  I  to  a  muleteer,  who  was  watching  my  move 
ments. 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  he,  shrugging  his  brawny 
ghoulders ;  "  they  say  it  is." 


THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY.  215 

"Who  says  it  is?" 

"  The  priest,— the  Padre  Cura." 

"  I  supposed  so.     And  how  was  this  portrait  taken  ?" 

He  could  not  tell.     The  Padre  Cura  knew  all  about  it. 

When  I  joined  my  companions,  who  were  a  little  in 
advance  of  me  with  the  carriage,  I  got  the  mystery 
explained.  The  Catholic  Church  boasts  of  three  portraits 
of  our  Saviour,  miraculously  preserved  upon  the  folds  of 
a  handkerchief,  with  which  he  wiped  the  sweat  from  his 
brow,  on  the  day  of  the  crucifixion.  One  of  these  is  at 
Toledo,  another  in  the  kingdom  of  Xaen.  I  have  forgot 
ten  at  what  place  the  third  is  preserved. 

Is  this,  indeed,  the  nineteenth  century  ? 


THE  impression  which  this  monument  of  superstition 
made  upon  my  mind  was  soon  effaced  by  the  magnificent 
scene  which  now  burst  upon  me.  The  road  winds  up 
the  mountain-side  with  gradual  ascent ;  wild,  shapeless, 
gigantic  crags  overhang  it  upon  the  right,  and  upon  the 
left  the  wary  foot  starts  back  from  the  brink  of  a  fearful 
chasm  hundreds  of  feet  in  depth.  Its  sides  are  black  with 
ragged  pines,  and  rocks  that  have  toppled  down  from 
above  ;  and  at  the  bottom,  scarcely  visible  wind  the  sil 
very  waters  of  a  little  stream,  a  tributary  of  the  Guadal 
quivir.  The  road  skirts  the  ravine  for  miles, — now  climb 
ing  the  barren  rock,  and  now  sliding  gently  downward 
into  shadowy  hollows,  and  crossing  some  rustic  bridge 
thrown  over  a  wild  mountain-brook. 

At  length  the  scene  changed.  We  stood  upon  the 
southern  slope  of  the  Sierra,  and  looked  down  upon  the 
broad,  luxuriant  valleys  of  Andalusia,  bathed  in  the  gor 
geous  splendor  of  a  southern  sunset.  The  landscape  had 


216  THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY. 

already  assumed  the  "burnished  livery  "of  autumn  ;  but 
the  air  I  breathed  was  the  soft  and  balmy  breath  of  spring, 
— the  eternal  spring  of  Andalusia. 

If  ever  you  should  be  fortunate  enough  to  visit  this  part 
of  Spain  stop  for  the  night  at  the  village  of  La  Carolina. 
It  is  indeed  a  model  for  all  villages, — with  its  broad 
streets,  its  neat  white  houses,  its  spacious  market-place 
surrounded  with  a  colonnade,  and  its  public  walk  orna 
mented  with  fountains  and  set  out  with  luxuriant  trees. 
I  doubt  whether  all  Spain  can  show  a  village  more  beau 
tiful  than  this. 


THE  approach  to  Cordova  from  the  east  is  enchanting. 
The  sun  was  just  rising  as  we  crossed  the  Guadalquivir 
and  drew  near  to  the  city  ;  and,  alighting  from  the  car 
riage,  I  pursued  my  way  on  foot,  the  better  to  enjoy  the 
scene  and  the  pure  morning  air.  The  dew  still  glistened 
on  every  leaf  and  spray  ;  for  the  burning  sun  had  not  yet 
climbed  the  tall  hedge-row  of  wild  fig-tree  and  aloes 
which  skirts  the  roadside.  The  highway  wound  along 
through  gardens,  orchards,  and  vineyards,  and  here  and 
there  above  me  towered  the  glorious  palm  in  all  its  leafy 
magnificence.  On  my  right,  a  swelling  mountain-ridge, 
covered  with  verdure  and  sprinkled  with  little  white  her 
mitages,  looked  forth  towards  the  rising  sun  ;  and  on  the 
left,  in  a  long,  graceful  curve,  swept  the  bright  waters  of 
the  Guadalquivir,  pursuing  their  silent  journey  through 
a  verdant  reach  of  soft  lowland  landscape.  There,  amid 
all  the  luxuriance  of  this  sunny  clime,  arises  the  ancient 
city  of  Cordova,  though  stripped,  alas  !  of  its  former 
magnificence.  All  that  reminds  you  of  the  past  is  the 
crumbling  wall  of  the  city,  and  a  Saracen  mosque,  now 


THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY.  217 

changed  to  a  Christian  cathedral.  The  stranger,  who  is 
familiar  with  the  history  of  the  Moorish  dominion  in 
Spain,  pauses  with  a  sigh,  and  asks  himself,  Is  this  the 
imperial  city  of  Alhakam  the  Just,  and  Abdoulrahmau 
the  Magnificent  ? 


THIS,  then,  is  Seville,  that  "pleasant  city,  famous  for 
oranges  and  women. "  After  all  I  have  heard  of  its  beauty, 
I  am  disappointed  in  finding  it  so  far  less  beautiful  than 
my  imagination  had  painted  it.  The  wise  saw, — 

"  Quien  no  ha  visto  Se villa, 
No  ha  visto  mara villa," — 

ne  who  has  not  seen  Seville  has  seen  no  marvel, — is  an 
Andalusian  gasconade.  Under  correction  be  it  said,  he 
who  has  seen  Seville  has  seen  no  marvel.  This,  however, 
is  the  judgment  of  a  traveller  weary  and  wayworn  with  a 
journey  of  twelve  successive  days  in  a  carriage  drawn  by 
mules  ;  and  I  am  well  aware  how  much  our  opinions  of 
men  and  things  are  colored  by  these  trivial  ills.  A  sad 
spirit  is  like  a  rainy  day  ;  its  mists  and  shadows  darken 
the  brightest  sky,  and  clothe  the  fairest  landscape  in 
gloom. 

I  am,  too,  a  disappointed  man  in  another  respect.  I 
have  come  all  the  way  from  Madrid  to  Seville  without 
being  robbed  !  And  this,  too,  when  I  journeyed  at  a 
snail's  pace,  and  had  bought  a  watch  large  enough  for 
the  clock  of  a  village  church,  for  the  express  purpose  of 
having  it  violently  torn  from  me  by  a  fierce-whiskered 
highwayman,  with  his  blunderbuss  and  his  "  Boca  abajo. 
ladrones !  "  If  I  print  this  in  a  book,  I  am  undone, 
What !  travel  in  Spain  and  not  be  robbed  !  To  be  sure, 


218  THK  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY. 

1  came  very  near  it  more  than  once.  Almost  every  vil 
lage  we  passed  through  had  its  tale  to  tell  of  atrocities 
committed  in  the  neighborhood.  In  one  place,  the  stage 
coach  had  been  stopped  and  plundered ;  in  another,  a 
man  had  been  murdered  and  thrown  into  the  river ;  here 
and  there  a  rude  wooden  cross  and  a  shapeless  pile  of 
stones  marked  the  spot  where  some  unwary  traveller  had 
met  his  fate  ;  and  at  night,  seated  around  the  blazing 
hearth  of  the  inn-kitchen,  my  fellow-traveller  would  con 
verse  in  a  mysterious  undertone  of  the  dangers  we  were 
to  pass  through  on  the  morrow.  But  the  morrow  came 
and  went,  and,  alas  !  neither  salteador,  nor  ratero  moved 
a  finger.  At  one  place,  we  were  a  day  too  late  ;  at  an 
other,  a  day  too  early. 

I  am  now  at  the  Fonda  de  los  Americanos.  My  cham 
ber-door  opens  upon  a  gallery,  beneath  which  is  a  little 
court  paved  with  marble,  having  a  fountain  in  the  centre. 
As  I  write,  I  can  just  distinguish  the  tinkling  of  its  tiny 
jet,  falling  into  the  circular  basin  with  a  murmur  so  gen 
tle  that  it  scarcely  breaks  the  silence  of  the  night.  At 
day-dawn  I  start  for  Cadiz,  promising  myself  a  pleasant 
sail  down  the  Guadalquivir.  All  I  shall  be  able  to  say  of 
Seville  is  what  I  have  written  above, — that  it  is  "  a  pleas 
ant  city,  famous  for  oranges  and  women." 


I  AM  at  length  in  Cadiz.  I  came  across  the  bay  yes 
terday  morning  in  an  open  boat  from  Santa  Maria,  and 
have  established  myself  in  very  pleasant  rooms,  which 
look  out  upon  the  Plaza  de  San  Antonio,  the  public 
square  of  the  city.  The  morning  sun  awakes  me,  and  at 
evening  the  sea-breeze  comes  in  at  my  window.  At  night 
the  square  is  lighted  by  lamps  suspended  from  the  trees, 


THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY.  213 

and  thronged  with  a  brilliant  crowd  of  the  young  anol 


Cadiz  is  beautiful  beyond  imagination.  The  cities  of 
our  dreams  are  not  more  enchanting.  It  lies  like  a 
delicate  sea-shell  upon  the  brink  of  the  ocean,  so  won 
drous  fair  that  it  seems  not  formed  for  man.  In  sooth, 
the  Paphian  queen  born  of  the  feathery  sea-foam,  dwells 
here.  It  is  the  city  of  beauty  and  of  love. 

The  women  of  Cadiz  are  world-renowned  for  their 
loveliness.  Surely  earth  has  none  more  dazzling  than  a 
daughter  of  that  bright,  burning  clime.  What  a  volup 
tuous  form  !  what  a  dainty  foot  !  what  dignity!  what 
matchless  grace  ! 

"What  eyes,  —  what  lips,  —  what  everything  about  her  ! 
How  like  a  swan  she  swims  her  pace,  and  bears 
Her  silver  breasts  !  " 

The  Gaditana  is  not  ignorant  of  her  charms.  She 
knows  full  well  the  necromancy  of  a  smile.  You  see  it 
in  the  flourish  of  her  fan,  —  a  magic  wand,  whose  spell  is 
powerful  ;  you  see  it  in  her  steady  gaze,  the  elastic 
step, 

"  The  veil, 

Thrown  back  a  moment  with  the  glancing  hand, 
While  the  o'erpowering  eye,  that  turns  you  pale, 
Flashes  into  the  heart." 

When  I  am  old  and  gray,  and  sit  by  the  fireside  wrap 
ped  in  flannels,  if,  in  a  listless  moment,  recalling  what  is 
now  the  present,  but  will  then  be  the  distant  and  almost 
forgotten  past,  I  turn  over  the  leaves  of  this  journal  till 
my  watery  eye  falls  upon  the  page  I  have  just  written,  I 
shall  smile  at  the  enthusiasm  with  which  I  have 
sketched  this  portrait.  And  where  will  then  be  the 


220  THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY. 

bright  forms  that  now  glance  before  me,  like  the  heavenly 
creations  of  a  dream  ?  All  gone, — all  gone  !  Or,  if  per 
chance  a  few  still  linger  upon  earth  the  silver  cord  will  be 
loosed, — they  will  be  bowed  with  age  and  sorrow,  saying 
their  paternosters  with  a  tremulous  voice. 

Old  age  is  a  Pharisee  ;  for  he  makes  broad  his  phylac 
teries,  and  wears  them  upon  his  brow,  inscribed  with 
prayer,  but  in  the  "crooked  autograph"  of  a  palsied 
iiand.  "I  see  with  pain,"  says  a  French  female  writer, 
"  that  there  is  nothing  durable  upon  earth.  We  bring  into 
the  world  a  fair  face,  and  lo  !  in  less  than  thirty  years  it 
is  covered  with  wrinkles  ;  after  which  a  woman  is  no 
longer  good  for  anything."  A  most  appalling  thought  ! 

Were  I  to  translate  these  sombre  reflections  into  choice 
Castilian,  and  read  them  to  the  bright-eyed  houri  who  is 
now  leaning  over  the  balcony  opposite,  she  would  laugh, 
and  laughing  say,  "  Cuando  el  demonio  es  viejo,  se  mete 
frayle. " 


THE  devotion  paid  at  the  shrine  of  the  Virgin  is  one  of 
the  most  prominent  and  characteristic  features  of  the  Cath 
olic  religion.  In  Spain  it  is  one  of  its  most  attractive  fea 
tures.  In  the  southern  provinces,  in  Granada  and  in 
Andalusia,  which  the  inhabitants  call  "La  tierra  de 
Maria  Santisima," — the  land  of  the  most  holy  Mary, — 
this  adoration  is  most  ardent  and  enthusiastic.  There  is 
one  of  its  outward  observances  which  struck  me  as  pe 
culiarly  beautiful  and  impressive.  I  refer  to  the  Ave 
Maria,  an  evening  service  of  the  Virgin.  Just  as  the 
evening  twilight  commences,  the  bell  tolls  to  prayer.  In 
a  moment,  throughout  the  crowded  city,  the  hum  of 
business  is  hushed,  the  thronged  streets  are  still ;  th« 


THE  riLmtnrs  BREVIARY.  221 

gay  multitudes  that  crowd  the  public  walks  stand  mo 
tionless  ;  the  angry  dispute  ceases  ;  the  laugh  of  merri 
ment  dies  away ;  life  seems  for  a  moment  to  be  arrested 
in  its  career,  and  to  stand  still.  The  multitude  uncovei 
their  head*,  and,  witli  the  sign  of  the  cross,  whisper  their 
evening  prayer  to  the  Virgin.  Then  the  bells  ring  a 
merrier  peal;  the  crowds  move  again  in  the  streets,  and  the 
rush  and  turmoil  of  business  recommence.  I  have  always 
listened  with  feelings  of  solemn  pleasure  to  the  bell  that 
sounded  forth  the  Ave  Maria.  As  it  announced  the 
close  of  day,  it  seemed  also  to  cull  the  soul  from  its 
worldly  occupations  to  repose  and  devotion.  There  is 
something  beautiful  in  thus  measuring  the  march  of  time. 
The  hour,  too,  naturally  brings  the  heart  into  unison  with 
the  feelings  and  sentiments  of  devotion.  The  close  of 
the  day,  the  shadows  of  evening,  the  calm  of  twilight, 
inspire  a  feeling  of  tranquillity  ;  and  though  I  may  differ 
from  the  Catholic  in  regard  to  the  object  of  his  suppli 
cation,  yet  it  seems  to  me  a  beautiful  and  appropriate 
solemnity,  that,  at  the  close  of  each  daily  epoch  of  life, 
— which,  if  it  have  not  been  fruitful  in  incidents  to  our 
selves,  has,  nevertheless,  been  so  to  many  of  the  great 
human  family, — the  voice  of  the  whole  people,  and  of  the 
whole  world,  should  go  up  to  heaven  in  praise,  and 
plication,  and  thankfulness. 


"  THE  Moorish  kiii£  rides  up  und  down 
Through  Granada's  royal  town  ; 
From  Elvira's  gates  to  those 
Of  Bivarambla  on  he  goes. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  !" 

Tins  <-unmicm-rs  one  of  i  he  fine  old  Spanish  ballads, 


222  TTII-:  .riLfinrir*  HKKVTARY. 

commemorating  the  downfall  of  the  city  of  Albania^ 
AY  here  we  have  stopped  to  rest  our  horses  on  their  fatigu 
ing  march  from  Velez-Malaga  to  Granada.  Albania  Avas 
one  of  the  last  strongholds  of  the  Moslem  power  in  Spain. 
Its  fall  opened  the  way  for  the  Christian  army  across  the 
Sierra  Xevada,  and  spread  consternation  and  despair 
through  the  city  of  Granada.  The  description  in  the 
old  ballad  is  highly  graphic  and  beautiful ;  and  its  beauty 
is  well  preserved  in  the  spirited  English  translation  by 
Lord  Byron. 


As  we  crossed  the  Sierra  Nevada,  the  snowy  moun 
tains  that  look  doAvn  upon  the  luxuriant  Vega  of  Granada, 
AYO  OA^ertook  a  solitary  rider,  who  was  singing  a  wild  na 
tional  song,  to  cheer  the  loneliness  of  his  journey.  He 
was  an  athletic  man,  and  rode  a  spirited  horse  of  the 
Arab  breed.  A  black  bearskin  jacket  covered  his  broad 
shoulders,  and  around  his  waist  was  Avound  the  crimson 
faja,  so  universally  worn  by  the  Spanish  peasantry.  His 
velvet  breeches  reached  below  his  knee,  just  meeting  a 
pair  of  leather  gaiters  of  elegant  workmanship.  A  gay 
silken  handkerchief  was  tied  round  his  head,  and  over 
this  he  Avore  the  little  round  Andalusian  hat,  decked  out 
with  a  profusion  of  tassels  of  silk  and  bugles  of  silver. 
The  steed  he  mounted  AA^as  dressed  no  less  gayly  than  his 
rider.  Tl^ere  was  a  silver  star  upon  his  forehead,  and  a 
bright-colored  woollen  tassel  between  his  ears  ;  a  blanket 
striped  with  blue  and  red  covered  his  saddle,  and  even 
the  Moorish  stirrups  were  ornamented  with  brass  stude. 

This  personage  Avas  a  contrdbandista, — a  smuggler  be 
tween  Granada  and  the  seaport  of  Velez-Malaga.  The 
song  he  sung  was  one  of  the  popular  ballads  of  the 


THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVTART.  223 

Country.  I  will  here  transcribe  the  original  as  a  specimen 
of  its  kind.  Its  only  merit  is  simplicity,  and  a  certain 
grace  which  belongs  to  its  provincial  phraseology,  and 
which  would  be  wholly  lost  in  a  translation. 

"  Yo  quo  soy  contrabandista, 
Y  campo  por  mi  rcspeto, 
A  todos  los  desaf  10, 
Porque  a  naide  tengo  mieo. 
;  Ay,  jalco  !     ;  Muchaehas,  jaico  I 
£  Quien  me  compra  jilo  negro  ? 

"  Mi  caballo  esta  cansao, 
Y  yo  me  marcho  corriendo. 
I  Anda,  caballito  mio, 
Caballo  mio  careto  ! 
j  Anda,  que  viene  la  ronda, 
Y  se  mueve  el  tiroteo  ! 
j  Ay,  jaleo  !     ;  Ay,  ay,  jaleo  I 
I  Ay,  jaleo,  que  nos  cortan  I 
Sacame  de  aqueste  aprieto. 

"  Mi  caballo  ya  no  corre, 
Ya  mi  caballo  paro. 
Todo  para  en  este  mundo, 
Tambicn  he  de  parar  yo. 
j  Ay,  jalco  !     j  Muchaehas,  jaleo  ! 
^  Quien  me  compra  jilo  negro  ?  " 

The  air  to  which  these  words  are  sung  is  wild  and  high  ; 
and  the  prolonged  and  mournful  cadence  gives  it  the 
sound  of  a  funeral  wail,  or  a  cry  for  help.  To  have  its 
full  effect  upon  the  mind,  it  should  'bo  hoard  by  night,  in 
pome  Avild  mountain-pass,  and  from  a  distance.  Then 
the  harsh  tones  come  softened  to  the  car,  and,  in  unison 
with  the  hour  and  the  scene,  produce  a  pleasing  melan 
choly. 


224,  THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY. 

The  contrabandista  accompanied  us  to  Granada.  The 
sun  had  already  set  when  we  entered  the  Vega, — those 
luxuriant  meadows  which  stretch  away  to  the  south  and 
west  of  the  city,  league  after  league  of  rich,  unbroken 
rerdure.  It  was  Saturday  night  ;  and,  as  the  gathering 
twilight  fell  around  us,  and  one  by  one  the  lamps  of  the 
city  twinkled  in  the  distance,  suddenly  kindling  here  and 
there,  as  the  stars  start  to  their  places  in  the  evening 
sky,  a  loud  peal  of  bells  rang  forth  its  glad  welcome  to 
the  day  of  rest,  over  the  meadows  to  the  distant  hills, 
"  swinging  slow,  with  solemn  roar." 


Is  this  reality  and  not  a  dream  ?  Am  I  indeed  in 
Granada  ?  Am  I  indeed  within  the  walls  of  that  earthly 
paradise  of  the  Moorish  kings  ?  How  my  spirit  is  stirred 
within  me  !  How  my  heart  is  lifted  up  !  How  my 
thoughts  are  rapt  away  in  the  visions  of  other  days  ! 

Ave,  Maria  purissima  !  It  is  midnight.  The  bell 
has  tolled  the  hour  from  the  watch-tower  of  the  Alham 
bra  ;  and  the  silent  street  echoes  only  to  the  watchman's 
cry,  Ave,  Maria  purissima!  I  am  alone  in  my  cham 
ber, — sleepless, — spell-bound  by  the  genius  of  the  place, 
— entranced  by  the  beauty  of  the  star-lit  night.  As  I 
gaze  from  my  window,  a  sudden  radiance  brightens  in 
the  east.  It  is  the  moon,  rising  behind  the  Alhambra. 
I  can  faintly  discern  the  dusky  and  indistinct  outline  of 
a  massive  tower,  standing  amid  the  uncertain  twilight, 
like  a  gigantic  shadow.  It  changes  with  the  rising  moon, 
as  a  palace  in  the  clouds,  and  other  towers  and  battle 
ments  arise, — every  moment  more  distinct,  more  palpable, 
till  now  they  stand  between  me  and  the  sky,  with  a  sharp 
outline,  distant,  and  yet  so  near  that  I  seem  to  sit  within 
their  shadow. 


THE  PILGIUM'*  BREVIARY.  225 

Majestic  spirit  of  the  night,  I  recognize  thee  !  Thou 
mist  conjured  up  this  glorious  vision  for  thy  votary. 
Thou  hast  baptized  me  with  thy  baptism.  Thou  hast 
nourished  my  soul  with  fervent  thoughts  and  holy  aspira 
tions,  and  ardent  longings  after  the  beautiful  and  the 
true.  Majestic  spirit  of  the  past,  I  recognize  thee ! 
Thou  hast  bid  the  shadow  go  back  lor  me  upon  the  dial- 
plate  of  time.  Thou  hast  taught  me  to  read  in  thee  the 
present  and  the  future, — a  revelation  of  man's  destiny  on 
earth.  Thou  hast  taught  me  to  see  in  thee  the  principle 
that  unfolds  itself  from  century  to  century  in  the  prog 
ress  of  our  race, — the  germ  in  Avhose  bosom  lie  unfolded 
the  bud,  the  leaf,  the  tree.  Generations  perish,  like  the 
leaves  of  the  forest,  passing  away  when  their  mission  is 
completed  ;  but  at  each  succeeding  spring,  broader  and 
higher  spreads  the  human  mind  unto  its  perfect  stature, 
unto  the  fulfilment  of  its  destiny,  unto  the  perfection  of 
its  nature.  And  in  these  high  revelations,  thoti  hast 
taught  me  more, — thou  hast  taught  me  to  feel  that  I, 
too,  weak,  humble,  and  unknown,  feeble  of  purpose  and 
irresolute  of  good,  have  also  my  mission  to  accomplish 
upon  earth, — like  the  falling  leaf,  like  the  passing  wind, 
like  the  drop  of  rain.  0  glorious  thought  !  that  lifts  me 
above  the  power  of  time  and  chance,  and  tells  me  that  I 
cannot  pass  away,  and  leave  no  mark  of  my  existence.  I 
.-'lay  not  know  the  purpose  of  my  being, — the  end  for 
which  an  all-wise  Providence  created  me  as  I  am,  and 
placed  me  where  I  am  ;  but  I  do  know — for  in  such 
things  faith  is  knowledge — that  my  being  has  a  purpose 
in  the  omniscience  of  my  Creator,  and  that  all  my  actions 
tend  to  the  completion,  to  the  full  accomplishment  of 
that  purpose.  Is  this  fatality  ?  No.  1  feel  that  I  am 
free,  though  an  infinite  and  an  invisible  power  overrules 
15 


226  THE  PILGRIMS  BREVIARY. 

me.  Man  proposes,  and  God  disposes.  This  is  one  of 
the  many  mysteries  in  our  being  which  human  reason 
cannot  find  out  by  searching. 

Yonder  towers,  that  stand  so  huge  and  massive  in  the 
midnight  air,  the  work  of  human  hands  that  have  long 
since  forgotten  their  cunning  in  the  grave,  and  once  the 
home  of  human  beings  immortal  as  ourselves,  and  filled 
like  us  with  hopes  and  fears,  and  powers  of  good  and  ill, 
— are  lasting  memorials  of  their  builders  ;  inanimate  ma 
terial  forms,  yet  living  with  the  impress  of  a  creative 
mind.  These  are  landmarks  of  other  times.  Thus  from  the 
distant  past  the  history  of  the  human  race  is  telegraphed 
from  generation  to  generation,  through  the  present  to  all 
succeeding  ages.  These  are  manifestations  of  the  human 
mind  at  a  remote  period  of  its  history,  and  among  a  peo 
ple  who  came  from  another  clime, — the  children  of  the 
desert.  Their  mission  is  accomplished,  and  they  are 
gone ;  yet  leaving  behind  them  a  thousand  records  of 
themselves  and  of  their  ministry,  not  as  yet  fully  mani 
fest,  but  "seen  through  a  glass  darily,"  dimly  shadowed 
forth  in  the  language,  and  character,  and  manners,  and 
history  of  the  nation,  that  was  by  turns  the  conquered 
and  the  conquering.  The  Goth  sat  at  the  Arab's  feet ; 
and  athwart  the  cloud  and  storm  of  war,  streamed  tb* 
light  of  Oriental  learning  upon  the  Western  world, — 

"As  when  the  autumnal  sun, 
Through  travelling  rain  and  mist, 
Shines  on  the  evening  hills." 


THIS  morning  I  visited  the  Alhambra ;  an  eiichantod 
palace,  whose  exquisite  beauty  baffles  the  power  of  laii' 


THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVlAKf.  227 

guage  to  describe.  Its  outlines  may  be  drawn, — its  nails 
and  galleries,  its  court-yards  and  its  fountains,  num 
bered  ;  but  what  skillful  limner  shall  portray  in  words  its 
curious  architecture,  the  grotesque  ornaments,  the  quaint 
devices,  the  rich  tracery  of  the  walls,  the  ceilings  inlaid 
with  pearl  and  tortoise-shell  ?  what  language  paint  the 
magic  hues  of  light  and  shade,  the  shimmer  of  the  sun 
beam  as  it  falls  upon  the  marble  pavement,  and  the  bril 
liant  panels  inlaid  with  many-colored  stones  ?  Vague 
recollections  fill  my  mind, — images  dazzling  but  unde 
fined,  like  the  memory  of  a  gorgeous  dream.  They 
crowd  my  brain  confusedly,  but  they  will  not  stay  ;  they 
change  and  mingle,  like  the  tremulous  sunshine  on  the 
wave,  till  imagination  itself  is  dazzled, — bewildered,— 
overpowered ! 

AY  hat  most  arrests  the  stranger's  foot  within  the  Al- 
hambra  is  the  refinement  of  luxury  which  he  sees  at 
every  step.  He  lingers  in  the  deserted  bath, — he  pauses 
to  gaze  upon  the  now  vacant  saloon,  where,  stretched 
upon  his  gilded  couch,  the  effeminate  monarch  of  the 
East  was  wooed  to  sleep  by  softly-breathing  music.  What 
more  delightful  than  this  secluded  garden,  green  with 
the  leaf  of  the  myrtle  and  the  orange,  and  freshened  with 
the  gush  of  fountains,  beside  whose  basin  the  nightingale 
still  wooes  the  blushing  rose  ?  "What  more  fanciful,  more 
exquisite,  more  like  a  creation  of  Oriental  magic,  than 
the  lofty  tower  of  the  Tocador, — its  airy  sculpture  re 
sembling  the  fretwork  of  wintry  frost,  and  ii.s  windows 
overlooking  the  romantic  valley  of  the  Darro ;  and  tho 
city,  with  its  gardens,  domes,  and  spires,  far,  far  below  ? 
Cool  through  this  lattice  comes  the  summer  wind  from 
the  icy  summits  of  the  Sierra  Nevada.  Softly  in  yonder 
fountain  falls  the  crystal  water,  dripping  from  its  alabas- 


228  THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY. 

ter  vase  with  never-ceasing  sound.  On  every  side  cornea 
up  the  fragrance  of  a  thousand  flowers,  the  murmur  of 
innumerable  leaves  ;  and  overhead  is  a  sky  where  not  a 
vapor  floats, — as  soft,  and  blue,  and  radiant  as  the  eye  of 
childhood ! 

Such  is  the  Alhambra  of  Granada  ;  a  fortress, — a  pal 
ace, — an  earthly  paradise, — a  ruin,  wonderful  in  its  fall 
en  greatness  ! 


THE  JOURNEY  INTO  ITALY. 

What  I  calch  is  at  present  only  sketch-ways?,  as  it  were  ;  but  I  prepare  mysait 
betimes  for  the  Italian  journey. 

GOETUE'S  FAUST. 

ON  the  afternoon  of  the  15th  of  December,  in  the  year 
of  grace  one  thousand  eight  hundred  and  twenty- 
seven;  I  left  Marseilles  for  Genoa,  taking  the  sea-shore 
road  through  Toulon,  Draguignan,  and  Nice.  This  jour 
ney  is  written  in  my  memory  with  a  sunbeam.  We  were 
a  company  whom  chance  had  throtv  n  together, — different 
in  ages,  humors,  and  pursuits, — and  yet  so  merrily  the 
days  went  by,  in  sunshine,  wind  or  rain,  that  methinks 
s<mui  lucky  star  must  have  ruled  the  hour  that  brought 
us  five  so  auspiciously  together.  But  where  is  now  that 
merry  company  ?  One  sleeps  in  his  youthful  grave  ;  two 
sit  in  their  fatherland,  and  "  coin  their  brain  for  their 
daily  bread  " ;  and  the  others, — where  are  they  ?  If  still 
among  the  living,  I  beg  them  to  remember  in  their  prayers 
the  humble  historian  of  their  journey  from  Marseilles  to 
Genoa. 

At  Toulon  we  took  a  private  carriage  in  order  to  pur 
sue  our  journey  more  leisurely  and  more  at  ease.  I  well 
remember  the  strange,  outlandish  vehicle,  and  our  vettu- 
rino  Joseph,  with  his  blouse,  his  short-stemmed  pipe,  his 
limping  gait,  his  comical  phi/,  and  the  lowland  dialed 
his  mother  taught  him  at  Avignon.  Every  scene,  every 
incident  of  the  journey  is  now  before  me  as  if  written  in 
a  book,  The  sunny  landscapes  of  the  Var, — the  peasant 
229 


230  THE  JOURNEY  INTO  ITALY. 

girls,  with  their  broad-brimmed  hats  of  straw, — the  ims 
at  Draguignan,  with  its  painting  of  a  lady  on  horseback, 
underwritten  in  French  and  English,  "  Une  jeune  dams 
a  la  promenade, — a  young  ladi  taking  a  walk," — the 
mouldering  arches  of  the  Roman  aqueducts  at  Frejus, 
Binding  in  the  dim  twilight  of  morning  like  shadowy 
apparitions  of  the  past, — the  wooden  bridge  across  the 
Var, — the  glorious  amphitheatre  of  hills  that  half  encir 
cle  Nice, — the  midnight  scene  at  the  village  inn  of  Mo 
naco, — the  magnificent  scenery  of  the  Col  de  Tende,  with 
its  mountain  road  overhanging  the  sea  at  a  dizzy  height, 
and  its  long,  dark  passages  cut  through  the  solid  rock, — 
the  tumbling  mountain-torrent, — and  a  fortress  perched 
on  a  jutting  spur  of  the  Alps ;  these,  and  a  thousand 
varied  scenes  and  landscapes  of  this  journey,  rise  before 
me,  as  if  still  visible  to  the  eye  of  sense,  and  not  to  that 
of  memory  only.  And  yet  I  will  not  venture  upon  a 
minute  description  of  them.  I  have  not  colors  bright 
enough  for  such  landscapes  ;  and  besides,  even  the  most 
determined  lovers  of  the  picturesque  grow  weary  of  long 
descriptions ;  though  as  the  French  guide-book  says  of 
these  scenes,  "  Tout  cela  fait  sans  doute  un  spectacle  ad 
mirable  !  " 


ON"  the  tenth  day  of  our  journey,  we  reached  Genoa, 
the  city  of  palaces, — the  superb  city.  The  writer  of  an 
old  book,  called  "  Time's  Storehouse,"  thus  poetically 
describes  its  situation: — "This  cittie  is  most  proudly 
built  upon  the  seacoast  and  the  downef  all  of  the  Appenines, 
at  the  foot  of  a  mountaine  ;  even  as  if  she  were  descended 
downe  the  mount,  and  come  to  repose  herselfe  uppon  g 
plaine." 


TUK  ,T<>  I  /,'  X1-:  Y  INTO  IT  A  L  Y.  23* 

It  was  Christmas  c\c, — a  glorious  night  !  I  stood  at 
midnight  on  the  wide  terrace  of  our  hotel,  Avliich  over 
looks  the  sea,  and,  gazing  on  the  tiny  and  crisping  wavea 
that  broke  in  pearly  light  beneath  the  moon,  sent  back 
my  wandering  thoughts  far  over  the  sea,  to  a  distant 
home.  The  jangling  music  of  church-bells  aroused  me 
from  my  dream.  It  was  the  sound  of  jubilee  at  the 
approaching  festival  of  the  Nativity,  and  summoned  alike 
the  pious  devotee,  the  curious  stranger,  and  the  gallant 
cicisbeo  to  the  church  of  the  Annunziata. 

I  descended  from  the  terrace1,  and,  groping  my  way 
through  one  of  the  dark  and  narrow  lanes  which  intersect 
the  city  in  all  directions,  soon  found  myself  in  the  Strada 
Xuova.  The  long  line  of  palaces  lay  half  in  shadow,  half 
in  light,  stretching  before  me  in  magical  perspective,  like 
the  long  vapory  opening  of  a  cloud  in  the  summer  sky. 
Following  the  various  groups  that  were  passing  onward 
towards  the  public  square,  I  entered  the  church,  where 
midnight  mass  was  to  be  chanted.  A  dazzling  blaze  of 
light  from  the  high  altar  shone  upon  the  red  marble 
columns  which  support  the  roof,  and  fell  with  a  solemn 
effect  upon  the  kneeling  crowd  that  iilled  the  body  of  the 
church.  All  beyond  was  in  darkness  ;  and  from  that 
darkness  at  intervals  burst  forth  the  deep  voice  of  the 
organ  and  the  chanting  of  the  choir,  filling  the  soul  with 
solemnity  and  a\ve.  And  yet,  among  that  prostrate 
crowd,  how  many  had  been  drawn  t  hit  her  byunworth\ 
motives, — motives  even  more  unworthy  than  mere  idle 
curiosity  !  How  many  sinful  purposes  arose  in  soule 
unpurified,  and  mocked  at  the  bended  knee  !  I  Tow  many 
a  heart  beat  wild  with  earthly  passion,  while  the  uncon 
scious  lip  repeated  the  accustomed  prayer!  Immortal 
spirit  !  canst  thou  so  heedlessly  resist  the  imploring  voice 


232  THE  JOURNEY  INTO  ITALY. 

that  calls  tlieo  from  thine  errors  and  pollutions  ?  Is  not 
the  long  day  long  enough,  is  not  the  wide  world  wide 
enough,  has  not  society  frivolity  enough  for  thee,  that  thou 
shouldst  seek  out  this  midnight  hour,  this  holy  place, 
this  solemn  sacrifice,  to  add  irreverence  to  thy  folly  ? 

In  the  shadow  of  a  column  stood  a  young  man  wrapped 
in  a  cloak,  earnestly  conversing  in  a  low  whisper  with  a 
female  figure,  so  veiled  as  to  hide  her  face  from  the  eyes 
of  all  but  her  companion.  At  length  they  separated. 
The  young  man  continued  leaning  against  the  column, 
and  the  girl,  gliding  silently  along  the  dimly  lighted  aisle, 
mingled  with  the  crowd,  and  threw  herself  upon  her 
knees.  Beware,  poor  girl,  thought  I,  lest  thy  gentle 
nature  prove  thy  undoing !  Perhaps,  alas,  thou  art 
already  undone  !  And  I  almost  heard  the  evil  spirit 
Avhisper,  us  in  the  Faust,  "  How  different  was  it  with  thee, 
Margaret,  v/hen,  still  full  of  innocence,  thou  earnest  to 
the  altar  here, — out  of  the  \vell-worn  little  book  lispedst 
prayers,  half  child-sport,  half  God  in  the  heart !  Margaret, 
where  is  thy  head  ?  What  crime  in  thy  heart !  " 

The  city  of  Genoa  is  magnificent  in  parts,  but  not  as  a 
whole.  The  houses  are  high,  and  the  streets  in  general 
so  narrow  that  in  many  of  them  you  may  almost  step 
across  from  side  to  side.  They  are  b"ilt  to  receive  the 
cool  sea-breeze,  and  shut  out  the  burning  sun.  Only 
three  of  them — if  my  memory  serves — are  wide  enough  to 
admit  the  passage  of  carriages  ;  and  these  three  form  but 
one  continuous  street, — the  street  of  palaces.  They  are 
the  Strada  Nuova,  the  Strada  Novissima,  and  the  Strada 
Balbi,  which  connect  the  Piazza  Amorosa  with  the  Piazza 
dell'  Annunziata.  These  palaces,  the  Doria,  the  Durazzo, 
the  Ducal  Palace,  and  others  of  less  magnificence,— with 
their  vast  halls,  their  marble  staircases,  vestibules,  and 


THE  JOURNEY  INTO  TTAL  T.  233 

terraces,  and  the  aspect  of  splendor  and  munificence  they 
wear, — have  given  this  commercial  city  the  title  of  Genoa 
the  Superb.  And,  as  if  to  humble  her  pride,  some  envious 
rival  among  the  Italian  cities  has  launched  at  her  a  biting 
sarcasm  in  the  well  known  proverb,  "Mare  senza  pesce, 
uomini  senza  fede,  e  donne  senza  veryoyna" — A  sea  without 
fish,  men  without  faith,  and  women  without  modest  v  ! 


THE  road  from  Genoa  to  Lucca  strongly  resembles  that 
from  Nice  to  Genoa.  It  runs  along  the  seaboard,  now 
dipping  to  the  water's  edge,  and  now  climbing  the  zig-zag 
mountain-pass,  with  toppling  crags,  and  yawning  chasms, 
and  verdant  terraces  of  vines  and  olive-trees.  Many  a 
sublime  and  many  a  picturesque  landscape  catches  the 
traveller's  eye,  now  almost  weary  with  gazing  ;  and  still 
brightly  painted  upon  my  mind  lies  a  calm  evening  scene 
on  the  borders  of  the  Gulf  of  Spezia,  with  its  broad  sheet 
of  crystal  water, — the  blue-tinted  hills  that  form  its  oval 
basin, — the  crimson  sky  above,  and  its  bright  re 
flection, — 

"  Where  it  lay 

Deep  bosomed  in  the  still  and  quiet  bay, 
The  sea  reflecting  all  that  glowed  above. 
Till  a  new  sky,  softer  but  not  so  gay, 
Arched  in  its  bosom,  trembled  like  a  dove." 


PISA,  the  melancholy  city,  with  its  Leaning  Tower, 
its  Campo  Santo,  its  bronze-gated  cathedral,  and  ita 
gloomy  palaces, — Florence  the  Fair,  with  its  magnificent 
Duomo,  its  gallery  of  ancient  art,  its  gardens,  its  gay 
society,  and  its  delightful  environs, — Fiesole,  Camaldoli, 


THE  JOURNEY  INTO  ITALY. 

VaJlombrosa,  and  the  luxuriant  Val  d'  Arno  ; — these  hava 
been  so  often  and  so  beautifully  described  by  others,  that 
I  need  not  repeat  the  twice-told  tale. 


AT  Florence  I  took  lodgings  in  a  house  which  fronts 
upon  the  Piazza  Novella.  In  front  of  my  parlor  windows 
was  the  venerable  Gothic  church  of  Santa  Maria  Novella, 
in  whose  gloomy  aisles  Boccaccio  has  placed  the  opening 
scene  of  his  Decameron.  There,  when  the  plague  was 
raging  in  the  city,  one  Tuesday  morning,  after  mass,  the 
"seven  ladies,  young  and  fair,"  held  counsel  together, 
and  resolved  to  leave  the  infected  city,  and  flee  to  their 
rural  villas  in  the  environs,  where  they  might  "hear 
the  birds  sing,  and  see  the  green  hills,  and  the  plains,  and 
the  fields  covered  with  grain  and  undulating  like  the 
sea,  and  trees  of  species  manifold." 

In  the  Florentine  museum  is  a  representation  in  wax 
of  some  of  the  appalling  scenes  of  the  plague  which  deso 
lated  this  city  about  the  middle  of  the  fourteenth  century, 
and  which  Boccaccio  has  described  with  such  simplicity 
and  power  in  the  introduction  of  his  Decameron.  It  is  the 
work  of  a  Sicilian  artist,  by  the  name  of  Zumbo.  He 
must  have  been  a  man  of  the  most  gloomy  and  saturnine 
imagination,  and  more  akin  to  the  worm  than  most  of  us. 
thus  to  have  revelled  night  and  day  in  the  hideous  mys 
teries  of  death,  corruption,  and  the  charnel-house.  It  is 
Btrange  how  this  representation  haunts  me.  It  is  like  a 
dream  of  the  sepulchre,  with  its  loathsome  corses,  with 
"the  blackening,  the  swelling,  the  bursting  of  the  trunk, 
— the  worm,  the  rat,  and  the  tarantula  at  work."  You 
breathe  more  freely  as  you  step  out  into  the  open  air 


Tin-:  jomxEY  JXTO  ITALY.  335 

again;  and  \vhen  the  bright  sunshine  and  the  crowded 
bu-y  streets  next  meet  your  eye,  you  are  ready  to  ask,  Is 
this  hided  a  representation  of  reality  ?  Can  this  pure  air 
have  been  laden  with  pestilence  ?  Can  this  gay  city  have 
ever  been  a  city  of  the  plague  ? 

The  work  of  the  Sicilian  artist  is  admirable  as  a  piece 
of  art;  the  description  of  the  Florentine  prose-poet 
equally  admirable  as  a  piece  of  eloquence.  "  How  many 
vast  palaces,"  he  exclaims,  "how  many  beautiful  houses, 
how  many  noble  dwellings,  aforetime  filled  with  lords 
and  ladies  and  trains  of  servants,  were  now  untenanted 
even  by  the  lowest  menial !  How  many  memorable 
families,  how  many  ample  heritages,  how  many  re 
nowned  possessions,  were  left  without  an  heir  !  How 
many  valiant  men,  how  many  beautiful  women,  how 
many  gentle  youths,  breakfasted  in  the  morning  with 
their  relatives,  companions  and  friends,  and,  when  the 
evening  came,  supped  with  their  ancestors  in  the  other 
world!" 


I  MET  with  an  odd  character  at  Florence, — a  complete 
humorist.  He  was  an  Englishman  of  some  forty  years 
of  age,  witn  a  round,  good-humored  countenance,  and  a 
nose  that  wore  the  livery  of  good  company.  He  was 
making  the  grand  tour  through  France  and  Italy,  and 
home  again  by  the  way  of  Tyrol  and  the  Rhine.  He 
travelled  p<»-t,  with  a  double-barrelled  gun,  two  pairs  of 
pistols,  and  a  violin  without  a  bow.  He  had  been  in 
Rome  without  seeing  St.  Peter's, — he  did  not  care  about 
it;  he  had  seen  St.  Paul's  in  London.  He  had  been  in 
Naples  without  visiting  Mount  Vesuvius  ;  and  did  not  go 
to  Pompeii,  because  '*  (bey  told  him  it  was  hardly  worth 


236  THE  JOURNEY  INTO  ITALY. 

seeing, — nothing  but  a  parcel  of  dark  streets  ana  6^ 
walls.  The  principal  object  he  seemed  to  have  in  vie~v» 
was  to  complete  the  grand  tour. 

I  afterward  met  with  his  counterpart  in  a  countryman 
of  my  own,  who  made  it  a  point  to  see  everything  which 
Avas  mentioned  in  the  guide-books  ;  and  boasted  how 
much  he  could  accomplish  in  a  day.  He  would  despatch 
a  city  in  an  incredibly  short  space  of  time.  A  Roman 
aqueduct,  a  Gothic  cathedral,  two  or  three  modern 
churches,  and  an  ancient  ruin  or  so,  were  only  a  break 
fast  for  him.  Nothing  came  amiss  ;  not  a  stone  was 
left  unturned.  A  city  was  like  a  Chinese  picture  to  him., 
— it  had  no  perspective.  Every  object  seemed  of  equal 
magnitude  and  importance.  He  saw  them  all ;  they 
were  all  wonderful. 

"Life  is  short,  and  art  is  long,"  says  Hippocrates ;  yet 
spare  me  from  thus  travelling  with  the  speed  of  thought, 
and  trotting,  from  daylight  until  dark,  at  the  heels  of  a 
cicerone,  with  an  umbrella  in  one  hand,  and  a  guide-book 
and  plan  of  the  city  in  the  other. 


I  COPIED  the  following  singular  inscription  from  a 
tombstone  in  the  Protestant  cemetery  at  Leghorn.  It  is 
the  epitaph  of  a  lady,  written  by  herself,  and  engraven 
upon  her  tomb  at  hei  own  request. 

"  Under  this  stone  lies  the  victim  of  sorrow, 
Fly,  wandering  stranger,  from  her  mouldering  dust, 
Lest  the  rude  wind,  conveying  a  particle  thereof  unto  thee, 
Should  communicate  that  venom  melancholy 
That  has  destroyed  the  strongest  frame  and  liveliest  spirit. 
With  joy  of  heart  has  she  resigned  her  breath, 
A  living  martyr  to  sensibility  !  " 


THE  JO  U11XI-: ) '  /  YTO  ITAL  Y.  23  ? 

lTo\v  inferior  in  (rue  pa  ill  as  is  this  inscription  to  one  hi 
the  cemetery  of  Bologna  ; — 

"  Lucresria  Picini 
Iraplora  eterna  pace." 

Lucretia  Picini  implores  eternal  peace  ! 

From  Florence  to  Rome  I  travelled  with  a  vetturino,  bj 
the  way  of  Siena.  We  were  six  days  upon  the  road,  and, 
like  Peter  Rugg  in  the  story-book,  were  followed  con 
stantly  by  clouds  and  rain.  At  times,  the  sun,  not  all- 
forgetful  of  the  world,  peeped  from  beneath  his  cowl  of 
mist,  and  kissed  the  swarthy  face  of  his  beloved  land  ; 
and  then,  like  an  anchorite,  withdrew  again  from  earth, 
and  gave  himself  to  heaven.  Day  after  day  the  mist  and 
the  rain  were  my  fellow-travellers  ;  and  as  I  sat  wrapped 
in  the  thick  folds  of  my  Spanish  cloak,  and  looked  out 
upon  the  misty  landscape  and  the  leaden  sky,  I  was  con 
tinually  saying  to  myself,  "Can  this  be  Italy?"  and 
smiling  at  the  untravclled  credulity  of  those  Avho,  amid 
the  storms  of  a  northern  winter,  give  way  to  the  illusions 
of  fancy,  and  dream  of  Italy  as  a  sunny  land,  where  no 
wintry  tempest  beats,  and  where,  even  in  January,  the 
pale  invalid  may  go  about  without  his  umbrella,  his 
Belcher  handkerchief,  or  his  India-rubber  walk-in-the- 
\vaters. 

Notwithstanding  all  this,  with  the  help  of  a  good  con 
stitution  and  a  thick  pair  of  boots,  I  contrived  to  sec  all 
that  was  to  be  seen  upon  the  road.  I  walked  down  the 
long  hillside  at  San  Lorenzo,  and  along  the  border  of  the 
Lake  of  Bolsena,  which,  veiled  in  the  driving  mist, 
Btretchedlikc  an  inland  ,-ea  beyond  my  ken  ;  and  through 
the  sacred  forest  of  oak,  held  in  superstitious  reverence 
by  the  peasant,  and  inviolate  from  his  axe.  I  passed  a 


T1TE  .JOURNEY  TNTO  ITALY. 

uigbt  at  Montefiascone,  renowned  for  a  delicate  Muscat 
wine,  which  bears  the  name  of  Est,  and  made  a  midnight 
pilgrimage  to  the  tomb  of  the  Bishop  John  Defourris, 
who  died  a  martyr  to  his  love  of  this  wine  of  Montefias- 
cone. 

"  Propter  nimium  Est,  Est,  Est, 
Dominus  meus  mortuus  ost." 

A  marble  slab  in  the  pavement,  worn  by  the  footsteps  of 
pilgrims  like  myself,  covers  the  dominie's  ashes.  There 
is  a  rude  figure  carved  upon  it,  at  whose  feet  I  traced  out 
the  cabalistic  words,  "Est,  Est,  Est."  The  remainder 
of  the  inscription  was  illegible  by  the  flickering  light  of 
the  sexton's  lantern. 

At  Baccano  I  first  caught  sight  of  the  dome  of  St. 
Peter's.  We  had  entered  the  desolate  Campagna ;  we 
passed  the  tomb  of  Nero, — we  approached  the  Eternal 
City  ;  but  no  sound  of  active  life,  no  thronging  crowds, 
no  hum  of  busy  men,  announced  that  we  were  near  the 
gates  of  Home.  All  was  silence,  solitude,  and  desolation. 


ROME   IN   MIDSUMMER. 

She  who  tamed  the  world  seemed  to  tame  herself  at  la.4,  and,  falling  nnder  h« 
Own  weight,  grew  to  be  a  prey  to  Tinii-.  who  with  his  iron  teeth  consumes  aU 
bodies  at  last,  making  all  things,  both  animate  and  inanimate,  which  have  their 
being  under  that  changeling,  the  moon,  to  be  subject  unto  corruption  and  deso 
lation.  HOWELL'S  SIGNORIE  OF  VENICE. 


masks  and  mummeries  of  Carnival  are  over  ;  the 
-*-  imposing  ceremonials  of  Holy  Week  have  become  a 
tale  of  the  times  of  old  ;  the  illumination  of  St.  Peter's 
and  the  Girandola  are  no  longer  the  theme  of  gentle  and 
simple  ;  and  finally,  the  barbarians  of  the  North  have  re 
treated  from  the  gates  of  Rome,  and  left  the  Eternal 
City  silent  and  deserted.  The  cicerone  stands  at  the 
corner  of  the  street  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  ;  the 
artist  has  shut  himself  up  in  his  studio  to  muse  upon  an 
tiquity  ;  and  the  idle  facchmo  lounges  in  the  market 
place,  and  plays  at  morra  by  the  fountain.  Midsummer 
has  come  ;  and  you  may  now  hire  a  palace  for  what,  a 
few  weeks  ago,  would  hardly  have  paid  your  night's  lodg 
ing  in  its  garret. 

I  am  still  lingering  in  Rome,  —  a  student,  not  an  artist, 
—  and  have  taken  lodgings  in  the  Piazza  Navona,  the 
very  heart  of  the  city,  and  one  of  the  largest  and  most 
magnificent  squares  of  modern  Rome.  It  occupies  tha 
site  of  the  ancient  amphitheatre  of  Alexander  Severus  ; 
and  the  churches,  palaces,  and  shops  that  now  surround 
it  are  built  upon  the  old  foundations  <>f  the  amphitheatre. 
At  each  extremity  of  the  square  stands  a  fountain  ;  the 
one  with  a  simple  jet  of  crystal  water,  the  other  with  a 
239 


240  ROME  IN  MIDSUMMER, 

triton  holding  a  dolphin  by  the  tail.  In  the  centre  rises 
a  nobler  work  of  art ;  a  fountain  with  a  marble  basin 
more  than  two  hundred  feet  in  circumference.  From 
the  midst  uprises  a  huge  rock  pierced  with  four  grottoes, 
wherein  sit  a  rampant  sea-horse  and  a  lion  couchant.  On 
the  sides  of  the  rock  arc  four  colossal  statues,  represent 
ing  the  four  principal  rivers  of  the  world  ;  and  from  its 
summit,  forty  feet  from  the  basin  below,  shoots  up  an 
obelisk  of  red  granite,  covered  with  hieroglyphics,  and 
fifty  feet  in  height, — a  relic  of  the  amphitheatre  of  Cara- 
calla. 

In  this  quarter  of  the  city  I  have  domiciliated  myself, 
in  a  family  of  whose  many  kindnesses  I  shall  always  re 
tain  the  most  lively  and  grateful  remembrance.  My 
mornings  are  spent  in  visiting  the  wonders  of  Eome,  in 
studying  the  miracles  of  ancient  and  modern  art,  or  in 
reading  at  the  public  libraries.  We  breakfast  at  noon, 
and  dine  at  the  aristocratic  hour  of  eight  in  the  evening. 
The  intermediate  hours  I  devote  to  the  acquisition  of  the 
Italian  language, — the  idioma  gentilsonante  e  puro, — not 
from  the  lessons  of  a  pragmatical  language-master,  but  in 
the  delightful  intercourse  of  a  pleasant  family  circle. 
After  dinner  comes  the  conversazione,  enlivened  with 
exquisite  music,  and  the  meeting  of  travellers,  artists, 
and  literary  men  from  every  quarter  of  the  globe.  At 
midnight,  when  the  crowd  is  gone,  I  retire  to  my  cham 
ber,  and,  poring  over  the  gloomy  pages  of  Dante,  or 
"  Baiidello's  laughing  tale,"  protract  my  nightly  vigil  till 
the  morning  star  is  in  the  sky. 

Our  parlor  windows  look  out  upon  the  square,  which 
circumstance  is  a  source  of  infinite  enjoyment  to  me.  Di 
rectly  in  front,  with  its  fantastic  belfries  and  swelling 
dome,  rises  the  church  of  St.  Agnes  ;  and  sitting  by  the 


IX 


open  window,  I  note  the  busy  scene  below,  enjoy  the  cool 
air  of  morning  and  evening,  and  even  feel  the  freshness 
of  the  fountain,  as  its  waters  leap  in  mimic  cascades  down 
the  sides  of  the  rock. 


THE  Piazza  Navona  is  the  chief  market-place  of  Rome  ; 
and  on  market-days  is  filled  with  a  noisy  crowd  of  the 
Roman  populace,  and  the  peasantry  from  the  neighboring 
villages  of  Albano  and  Frascati.  At  such  times  the 
square  presents  an  animated  and  curious  scene.  The 
gayly-decked  stalls, — the  piles  of  fruits  and  vegetables, — 
the  pyramids  of  flowers, — the  various  costumes  of  the 
peasantry, — the  constant  movement  of  the  \ast,  fluctuat 
ing  crowd,  and  the  deafening  clamor  of  their  discordant 
voices,  that  rise  louder  than  the  roar  of  the  loud  ocean, 
— all  this  is  better  than  a  play  to  me,  and  gives  me 
amusement  when  naught  else  has  power  to  amuse. 

Every  Saturday  afternoon  in  the  sultry  month  of  Au 
gust,  this  spacious  square  is  converted  into  a  lake,  by 
stopping  the  conduit-pipes  which  carry  off  the  water  of 
the  fountains.  Coaches,  landaus,  and  vehicles  of  every 
description,  axle-deep,  drive  to  and  fro  across  the  mimic 
lake ;  a  dense  crowd  gathers  around  its  margin,  and  a 
thousand  tricks  excite  the  laughter  of  the  idle  populace. 
Here  is  a  fellow  groping  with  a  stick  after  his  seafaring 
hat;  there  another  splashing  in  the  water  in  pursuit  of  a 
mischievous  spaniel,  that  has  swum  away  with  his  shoe  ; 
while  from  a  neighboring  balcony  a  noisy  hurst  of  mili- 
cary  music  fills  the  air,  and  gives  fresh  animation  to  tho 
»cene  of  mirth.  This  is  one  of  the  popular  festivals  of 
midsummer  in  Rome,  and  (he  merriest  of  them  all.  It 
jij  a  kind  of  carnival  unmasked  ;  and  many  a  populal 
16 


242  ROME  IN  MIDSUMMER. 

bard,  many  a  Poeta  di  dozzina,  invokes  this  day  the  pie* 
beian  Muse  of  the  market-place  to  sing  in  high-sounding 
rhyme,  "II  Lago  di  Piazza  Navona." 

I  have  before  me  one  of  these  sublime  effusions.  It  de 
scribes  the  square, — the  crowd, — the  rattling  carriages, — 
the  lake, — the  fountain,  raised  by  "the  superhuman  ge 
nius  of  Bernini," — the  lion, — the  sea-horse,  and  the  triton 
grasping  the  dolphin's  tail.  "Half  the  grand  square," 
thus  sings  the  poet,  "  where  Rome  with  food  is  satiate, 
was  changed  into  a  lake,  around  whose  margin  stood  the 
Roman  people,  pleased  with  soft  idleness  and  merry  holi 
day,  like  birds  upon  the  margin  of  a  limpid  brook.  Up 
and  down  drove  car  and  chariot ;  and  the  women  trembled 
for  fear  of  the  deep  water  ;  though  merry  were  the  young, 
and  well  I  ween,  had  they  been  borne  away  to  unknown 
shores  by  the  bull  that  bore  away  Europa,  they  would 
neither  have  wept  nor  screamed  ! " 


ON  the  eastern  slope  of  the  Janiculum,  now  called, 
from  its  yellow  sands,  Montorio,  or  the  Golden  Mountain, 
stands  the  fountain  of  Acqua  Paola,  the  largest  and  most 
abundant  of  the  Eoman  fountains.  It  is  a  small  Ionic 
temple,  with  six  columns  of  reddish  granite  in  front,  a 
ppacious  hall  and  chambers  within,  and  a  garden  with  a 
terrace  in  the  rear.  Beneath  the  pavement,  a  torrent  of 
water  from  the  ancient  aqueducts  of  Trajan,  and  from 
the  lakes  of  Bracciano  and  Martignano,  leaps  forth  in 
three  beautiful  cascades,  and  from  the  overflowing  basin 
rushes  down  the  hillside  to  turn  the  busy  wheels  of  a  dozen 
mills. 

The  key  of  this  little  fairy  palace  is  in  our  hands,  and 
as  often  as  once  a  week  we  pass  the  day  there,  amid  tha 


ROME  IN  MIDSUMMEK.  243 

odor  of  its  flowers,  the  rushing  sound  of  its  waters,  and 
the  enchantments  of  poetry  and  music.  How  pleasantly 
the  sultry  hours  steal  by  !  Cool  comes  the  summer  wind 
from  the  Tiber's  mouth  at  Ostia.  Above  us  is  a  sky  with 
out  a  cloud ;  beneath  us  the  magnificent  panorama  of 
Home  and  the  Campagna,  bounded  by  the  Abruzzi  and 
the  sea.  Glorious  scene  !  one  glance  at  thee  would  move 
the  dullest  soul, — one  glance  can  melt  the  painter  and 
the  poet  into  tears  ! 

In  the  immediate  neighborhood  of  the  fountain  are 
many  objects  worthy  of  the  stranger's  notice.  A  bowshot 
down  the  hillside  towards  the  city  stands  the  convent  of 
San  Pietro  in  Montorio ;  and  in  the  cloister  of  this  con 
vent  is  a  small,  round  Doric  temple,  built  upon  the  spot 
which  an  ancient  tradition  points  out  as  the  scene  of  Ft. 
Peter's  martyrdom.  In  the  opposite  direction  the  road 
leads  you  over  the  shoulder  of  the  hill,  and  out  through 
the  city-gate  to  gardens  and  villas  beyond.  Passing  be 
neath  a  lofty  arch  of  Trajan's  aqueduct,  an  ornamented 
gate  on  the  left  admits  you  to  the  Villa  Pamfili-Doria, 
built  on  the  western  declivity  of  the  hill.  This  is  the 
largest  and  most  magnificent  of  the  numerous  villas  that 
crowd  the  immediate  environs  of  Rome.  Its  spacious 
terraces,  its  marble  statues,  its  woodlands  and  green  al« 
leys,  its  lake  and  waterfalls  and  fountains,  give  it  an  air 
of  courtly  splendor  and  of  rural  beauty,  which  realixes 
the  beau  ideal  of  a  suburban  villa. 

This  is  our  favorite  resort,  when  we  have  passed  the 
day  at  the  fountain,  and  the  afternoon  shadows  begin  to 
fall.  There  AVC  sit  on  the  broad  marble  steps  of  the  ter 
race,  gaze  upon  the  varied  landscape  stretching  to  the 
misty  sea,  or  ramble  beneath  the  leafy  dome  of  the  wood 
land  and  along  the  margin  of  the  lake, 


2  44  ROME  IN  MWK  I'M  ME  11. 

"  And  drop  a  pebble  to  see  it  sink 
Down  in  those  depths  so  calm  and  cool." 

Ob,  did  we  but  know  when  we  are  happy  !  Could  th« 
restless,  feverish,  ambitious  heart  be  still,  but  for  a  mo 
ment  still,  and  yield  itself,  Avithout  one  farther-aspiring 
throb,  to  its  enjoyment, — then  were  I  happy, — yes,  thrice 
happy  !  But,  no  ;  this  fluttering-,  struggling,  and  im 
prisoned  spirit  beats  the  bars  of  its  golden  cage, — disdains 
the  silken  fetter ;  it  will  not  close  its  eye  and  fold  its 
wings  ;  as  if  time  were  not  swift  enough,  its  swifter 
thoughts  outstrip  his  rapid  flight,  and  onward,  onward 
do  they  wing  their  way  to  the  distant  mountains,  to  the 
fleeting  clouds  of  the  future  ;  and  yet  I  know,  thit  ere 
long,  weary,  and  wayworn,  and  disappointed,  they  shall 
return  to  nestle  in  the  bosom  of  the  past ! 

This  day,  also,  I  have  passed  at  Aqua  Paola.  From 
the  garden  terrace  I  watched  the  setting  sun,  as,  wrapt 
in  golden  vapor,  he  passed  to  other  climes.  A  friend 
from  my  native  land  was  with  me  ;  and  as  we  spake  of 
home,  a  liquid  star  stood  trembling  like  a  drop  of  dew 
upon  the  closing  eyelid  of  the  day.  Which  of  us  sketched 
these  lines  with  a  pencil  upon  the  cover  of  Julia's  Co- 
rinna  ? 

Bright  star  !  whose  soft,  familiar  ray, 

In  colder  climes  and  gloomier  skies, 
I've  watched  so  oft  when  closing  day 

Had  tinged  the  west  with  crimson  dyes  ; 
Perhaps  to-night  some  friend  I  love, 

Beyond  the  deep,  the  distant  sea, 
Will  gaze  upon  thy  path  above, 

And  give  one  lingering  thought  to  me. 


HOMK  IN  MIDSUMMER.  245 

TORQUATI  TASSO  OSSA  me  JACENT, — Here  lie  tho 
bones  of  Torquato  Tasso, — is  the  simple  inscription  upon 
the  poet's  tomb,  in  the  church  of  St.  Onofrio.  Many  a 
pilgrimage  is  made  to  this  grave.  Many  a  bard  from  dis 
taut  lands  comes  to  visit  the  spot, — and  as  he  paces  the 
secluded  cloisters  of  the  convent  where  the  poet  died,  and 
where  his  ashes  rest,  muses  on  the  sad  vicissitudes  of  his 
life,  and  breathes  an  orison  for  the  peace  of  his  soul.  lie 
sleeps  midway  between  his  cradle  at  Sorrento  and  his  dun 
geon  at  Ferrara. 

The  monastery  of  St.  Onofrio  stands  on  the  Janiculum, 
overlooking  the  Tiber  and  the  city  of  Rome  ;  and  in  the 
distance  rise  the  towers  of  the  Roman  Capitol,  where,  after 
long  years  of  sickness,  sorrow,  and  imprisonment,  the 
laurel  croAvn  was  prepared  for  the  great  epic  poet  of  Italy. 
The  chamber  in  which  Tasso  died  is  still  shown  to  the 
curious  traveller;  and  the  tree  in  the  garden,  under 
whose  shade  he  loved  to  sit.  The  feelings  of  the  dying 
man,  as  he  reposed  in  this  retirement,  are  not  the  vague 
conjectures  of  poetic  revery.  He  has  himself  recorded 
them  in  a  letter  which  he  wrote  to  his  friend  Antonio  Con- 
stantini,  a  few  days  only  before  his  dissolution.  These 
are  his  melancholy  words  :— 

"  What  will  my  friend  Antonio  say,  when  he  hears  the 
death  of  Tasso  ?  Erelong,  I  think,  the  news  will  reach 
him  ;  for  I  feel  that  the  end  of  my  life  is  near  ;  being 
able  to  find  no  remedy  for  this  wearisome  indisposition 
which  is  superadded  to  my  customary  infirmities,  and  by 
which,  as  by  a  rapid  torrent,  I  see  myself  swept  a\vay, 
without  a  hand  to  save.  It  is  no  longer  time  io  speak  of 
my  unyielding  destiny,  not  to  say  the  ingratitude  of  the 
world,  which  lias  longed  even  for  the  victory  of  driving 
me  a  beggar  to  my  grave  ;  while  1  thought  (hat  the  glory 


240  KOMK  l.\  MID8VMMBR. 

which,  in  spite  of  those  who  will  it  not,  this  age  shall  re 
ceive  from  my  writings  was  not  to  leave  me  thus  without 
reward.  I  have  come  to  this  monastery  of  St.  Onofrio, 
not  only  because  the  air  is  commended  by  physicians 
as  more  salubrious  than  in  any  other  part  of  Rome,  but 
that  I  may,  as  it  were,  commence,  in  this  high  place,  and 
in  the  conversation  of  these  devout  fathers,  my  conversa 
tion  in  heaven.  Pray  God  for  me  ;  and  be  assured  that  as 
I  have  loved  and  honored  you  in  this  present  life,  so  in 
that  other  and  more  real  life  will  I  do  for  you  all  that  be 
longs  to  charity  unfeigned  and  true.  And  to  the  divine 
mercy  I  commend  both  you  and  myself." 


THE  modern  Romans  are  a  very  devout  people.  The 
Princess  Doria  washes  the  pilgrims'  feet  in  Holy  Week  ; 
every  evening,  foul  or  fair,  the  whole  year  round,  there 
is  a  rosary  sung  before  an  image  of  the  Virgin,  within  a 
stone's  throw  of  my  window,  and  the  young  ladies  write 
letters  to  St.  Louis  Gonzaga,  who  in  all  paintings  and 
sculpture  is  represented  as  young  and  angelically  beauti 
ful.  I  saw  a  large  pile  of  these  letters  a  few  weeks  ago  in 
Gonzaga's  chapel,  at  the  church  of  St.  Ignatius.  They 
were  lying  at  the  foot  of  the  altar,  prettily  written  on 
smooth  paper,  and  tied  with  silken  ribands  of  various 
colors.  Leaning  over  the  marble  balustrade,  I  read  the 
following  superscription  upon  one  of  them  : — "AIT  An 
gelica  Giovane  8.  Luigi  Gonzaga,  Paradiso, — To  the 
angelic  youth  St.  Louis  Gonzaga,  Paradise."  A  soldier, 
with  a  musket,  kept  guard  over  this  treasure ;  and  I  had 
the  audacity  to  ask  him  at  what  hour  the  mail  went  out ; 
for  which  heretical  impertinence  he  cocked  his  mustache 


ROME  IN  J/ms i' MM /•;/,'.  24? 

at  me  with  the  most  savage  look  imaginable,  as  much  as 
to  say,  "  Get  thee  gone  "  : — 

'•  Andate, 
Niente  pigliate, 
E  mai  ritornate." 

The  modern  Romans  are  likewise  strongly  given  to 
amusements  of  every  description.  Panem  et  circenses, 
says  the  Latin  satirist,  when  chiding  the  degraded  pro 
pensities  of  his  countrymen  ;  Panem  et  circenses, — they 
are  content  with  bread  and  the  sports  of  the  circus.  The 
same  may  be  said  at  the  present  day.  Even  in  this  hot 
weather,  when  the  shops  are  shut  at  noon,  and  the  fat 
priests  waddle  about  the  streets  with  fans  in  their  hands, 
the  people  crowd  to  the  Mausoleum  of  Augustus  to  be 
choked  with  the  smoke  of  fireworks,  and  see  deformed 
and  humpback  dwarfs  tumbled  into  the  dirt  by  the 
masked  horns  of  young  bullocks.  What  a  refined 
amusement  for  the  inhabitants  of  "  pompous  and  holy 
Rome  ! " 


THE  Sirocco  prevails  to-day, — a  hot  wind  from  the 
burning  sands  of  Africa,  that  bathes  its  wings  in  the  sea, 
and  comes  laden  with  fogs  and  vapors  to  the  shores  of 
Italy.  It  is  oppressive  and  dispiriting,  and  quite  unmans 
one,  like  the  dog-days  of  the  North.  There  is  a  scrap  of 
an  old  English  song  running  in  my  mind,  in  which  the 
poet  calls  it  a  cool  wind  ;  though  ten  to  one  I  misquote. 

'•  Wlifii  tin-  cool  Sirocco  blows, 
And  daws  and  pics  and  rooks  and  crows 
Sit  and  curse  the  wintry  snows, 
Then  give  me  ale  I  " 


248  HO  UK  /.Y  MIDSUMMER. 

I  should  think  that  stark  English  beer  might  have  a 
potent  charm  against  the  powers  of  the  foul  fiend  that 
rides  this  steaming,  reeking  wind.  A  flask  of  Montefi- 
ascone,  or  a  Lottie  of  Lacrima  Christi  does  very  well. 


BEGGARS  all, — beggars  all  !  The  Papal  city  is  full  of 
them  ;  and  they  hold  you  by  the  button  through  the 
whole  calendar  of  saints.  You  cannot  choose  but  hear. 
I  met  an  old  woman  yesterday,  who  pierced  my  ear  with 
this  alluring  petition  : 

"  A  k  s  ignore  !  Qual-:lie  jnccola  cosa,  per  car  it  a  !  Vi  dird 
la  Ituona  ventura!  C'e  una  bella  signorina,  die  vi  ama 
molto  !  Per  il  Sacro  Sacramento  !  Per  la  Madonna  !  " 

Which  being  interpreted,  is,  "  Ah,  Sir,  a  trifle,  for 
charity's  sake  !  I  will  tell  your  fortune  for  you  !  There 
is  a  beautiful  young  lady  who  loves  you  well  !  For  the 
Holy  Sacrament, — for  the  Madonna's  sake  !  " 

Who  could  resist  such  an  appeal  ? 

I  made  a  laughable  mistake  this  morning  in  giving 
alms.  A  man  stood  on  the  shady  side  of  the  street  with 
his  hat  in  his  hand,  and  as  I  passed  he  gave  me  a  piteous 
look,  though  he  said  nothing.  He  had  such  a  woe-begone 
face,  and  such  a  threadbare  coat,  that  I  at  once  took  him 
for  one  of  those  mendicants  who  bear  the  title  of  poveri 
vergognosi,  —  bashful  beggars  ;  persons  whom  pinching 
want  compels  to  receive  the  stranger's  charity,  though 
pride  restrains  them  from  asking  it.  Moved  with  com 
passion,  I  threw  into  the  hat  the  little  I  had  to  give  ;  when, 
instead  of  thanking  me  wifli  a  blessing,  my  man  with 
the  threadbare  coat  showered  upon  me  the  most  sono 
rous  maledictions  of  his  native  tongue,  and,  emptying  his 


ROME  IN  MIDSUMMER.  249 

Y  hat  upon  the  pavement,  drerv  it  down  over  his  ears 
with  both  hands,  and  .stalked  away  with  all  the  dignity 
of  a  Roman  senator  in  the  hest  days  of  the  republic, — to 
the  infinite  amusement  of  a  green-grocer,  who  stood  at 
his  shop-door  bursting  with  laughter.  No  time  was  given 
me  for  an  apology  ;  but  I  resolved  to  be  for  the  future 
more  discriminating  in  my  charities,  and  not  to  take  for 
a  beggar  every  poor  gentleman  who  chose  to  stand  in  the 
shade  with  his  hat  in  his  hand  on  a  hot  summer's  day. 


THERE  is  an  old  fellow  who  hawks  pious  legends  and 
the  lives  of  saints  through  the  streets  of  Rome,  with  a 
sharp,  cracked  voice,  that  knows  no  pause  nor  division 
in  the  sentences  it  utters.  I  just  heard  him  cry  at  a 
breath  : — 

"  La  Vita  di  San  Giuseppe  quel  fidel  servitor  di  Dio 
santo  e  mar aviglioso  mezzo  bajocco, — The  Life  of  St.  Jo 
seph  that  faithful  servant  of  God  holy  and  wonderful  half 
a  cent. 

This  is  the  way  with  some  people  ;  everything  helter- 
skelter, — heads  and  tails, — prices  current  and  the  lives  ei 
saints  ! 


IT  has  been  a  rainy  day, — a  day  of  gloom.  The  church 
bells  never  rang  in  my  ears  with  so  melancholy  a  sound  ; 
ind  this  afternoon  I  saw  a  mournful  scene,  which  still 
haunts  my  imagination.  It  was  the  funeral  of  a  monk. 
1  w; is  drawn  to  the  window  by  the  solemn  chant,  as  the 
procession  came  from  a  neighboring  street  and  crossed 
the  square.  First  came  a  long  train  of  priests,  clad  in 


25C  ItOME  JJV  XID8UMMER. 

black,  and  tearing  in  their  hands  large  waxen  tapers, 
which  flared  in  every  gust  of  wind,  and  were  now  and 
then  extinguished  by  the  rain.  The  bier  followed,  borne 
on  the  shoulders  of  four  barefooted  Carmelites  ;  and  upon 
it,  ghastly  and  grim,  lay  the  body  of  the  dead  monk,  clad 
in  his  long  gray  kirtle,  with  the  twisted  cord  about  his 
waist.  Not  even  a  shroud  was  thrown  over  him.  His 
head  and  feet  were  bare,  and  his  hands  were  placed  upon 
his  bosom,  palm,  to  palm,  in  the  attitude  of  prayer.  His 
frame  was  emaciated,  and  of  a  livid  hue ;  his  eyes  un 
closed  ;  and  at  every  movement  of  the  bier,  his  head  nodded 
to  and  fro,  with  an  unearthly  and  hideous  aspect.  Behind 
walked  the  monastic  brotherhood,  a  long  and  melancholy 
procession,  with  their  cowls  thrown  back,  and  their  eyes 
cast  upon  the  ground  ;  and  last  of  all  came  a  man  with 
a  rough,  unpainted  coffin  upon  his  shoulders,  closing  the 
funeral  train. 


MANY  of  the  priests,  monks,  monsignori,  and  cardinais 
of  Eome  have  a  bad  reputation,  even  after  deducting  a 
tithe  or  so  from  the  tales  of  .gossip.  To  some  of  them 
maybe  applied  the  rhyming  Latin  distich,  written  for  the 
monks  of  old  : — 

"  0  Monachi, 
Vestri  stomach! 
Sunt  amphora  Bacchi ; 
Vos  estis, 
Deus  est  testis, 
Turpissima  pestis." 

The  graphic  description  which  Thomson  gives  in  >iis 


ROME  IN  MIDSUMMER.  251 

"  Castle  of  Indolence  "  would  readily  find  uii  mipersoDJ*- 
tion  among  the  Roman  priesthood  :— 

"  Full  oft  by  holy  feet  our  ground  was  trod,— 
Of  clerks  good  plenty  here  you  mote  espy  ; — 
A  little,  round,  fat,  oily  man  of  God 
\Vas  one  I  chiefly  marked  among  the  fry  ; 
He  had  a  roguish  twinkle  in  his  eye, 
Which  shone  all  glittering  with  ungodly  dew, 
When  a  tight  damsel  chanced  to  trippen  by  ; 
But  when  observed,  would  shrink  into  his  mew, 
And  straight  would  recollect  his  piety  anew." 


YONDER  across  the  square  goes  a  Minente  of  Trastevere ; 
a  fellow  who  boasts  the  blood  of  the  old  Eomans  in  hi? 
veins.  He  is  a  plebeian  exquisite  of  the  western  bank  of 
the  Tiber,  with  a  swarthy  face  and  the  step  of  an  emperor. 
He  wears  a  slouched  hat,  and  blue  velvet  jacket  and 
breeches,  and  has  enormous  silver  buckles  in  his  shoes. 
As  he  marches  along,  he  sings  a  ditty  in  his  own  vulgar 
dialect : — 

"  TJno,  due,  e  tre, 
E  lo  Papa  uon  e  Re." 

Now  he  stops  to  talk  with  a  woman  who  sells  roasted 
chestnuts.  What  violent  gestures  !  what  expressive  atti 
tudes  !  Head,  hands,  and  feet  are  all  in  motion, — not  a 
muscle  is  still !  It  must  be  some  interesting  subject  that 
excites  him  so  much,  and  gives  such  energy  to  his  ges 
tures  and  his  language.  No  ;  he  only  wants  to  light  his 
pipe  ! 

IT  is  now  past  midnight.  The  moon  is  full  and  bright, 
and  the  shadows  lie  so  dark  and  massive  in  the  street 


252  ROME  IN  MIDSUMMER. 

f«hat  they  seem  a  part  of  the  walls  that  cast  them.  1 
have  just  returned  from  the  Coliseum,  whose  ruins  are  so 
marvellously  beautiful  by  moonlight.  No  stranger  at 
Home  omits  this  midnight  visit ;  for  though  there  is  some 
thing  unpleasant  in  having  one's  admiration  forestalled, 
and  being  as  it  were  romantic  aforethought,  yet  the  charm 
is  so  powerful,  the  scene  so  surpassingly  beautiful  and 
sublime, — the  hour,  the  silence,  and  the  colossal  ruin  have 
such  a  mastery  over  the  soul, — that  you  are  disarmed 
when  most  upon  your  guard,  and  betrayed  into  an  enthu 
siasm  which  perhaps  you  had  silently  resolved  you  would 
not  feel. 

On  my  way  to  the  Coliseum,  I  crossed  the  Capitolino 
Hill,  and  descended  into  the  Roman  Forum  by  the  broad 
staircase  that  leads  to  the  triumphal  arch  of  Septimius 
Severus.  Close  upon  my  right  hand  stood  the  three 
remaining  columns  of  the  Temple  of  the  Thunderer,  and 
the  beautiful  Ionic  portico  of  the  Temple  of  Concord, — 
their  base  in  shadow,  and  the  bright  moonbeam  striking 
aslant  upon  the  broken  entablature  above.  Before  me 
rose  the  Phocian  Column, — an  isolated  shaft,  like  a  thin 
vapor  hanging  in  the  air  scarce  visible ;  and  far  to  the 
left,  the  ruins  of  the  Temple  of  Antonio  and  Faustina, 
and  the  three  colossal  arches  of  the  Temple  of  Peace, — • 
dim,  shadowy,  indistinct, — seemed  to  melt  away  and  min 
gle  with  the  sky.  I  crossed  the  Forum  to  the  foot  of  the 
Palatine,  and.  ascending  the  Via  Sacra,  passed  beneath 
the  Arch  of  Titus.  From  this  point,  I  saw  below  me  the 
gigantic  outline  of  the  Coliseum,  like  a  cloud  resting  upon 
the  earth.  As  I  descended  the  hillside,  it  grew  more  broad 
and  high, — more  definite  in  its  form,  and  yet  more  grand 
in  its  dimensions, — till,  from  the  vale  in  which  it  stands 
encompassed  by  three  of  the  Seven  Hills  of  Eome, — the 


ROME  IN  MIDSUMMEh.  253 

Palatine,  the  Ccelian,  and  the  Esquiline, — the  majestic 
ruin  in  all  its  solitary  grandeur  "  swelled  vast  to 
heaven." 

A  single  sentinel  was  pacing  to  and  fro  beneath  tho 
arched  gateway  which  leads  to  the  interior,  and  his 
measured  footsteps  were  the  only  sound  that  broke  the 
breathless  silence  of  the  night.  What  a  contrast  with  the 
scene  which  that  same  midnight  hour  presented,  when, 
in  Domitian's  time,  the  eager  populace  began  to  gather  at 
the  gates,  impatient  for  the  morning  sports  !  Nor  was 
the  contrast  within  less  striking.  Silence,  and  the  quiet 
moonbeams,  and  the  broad,  deep  shadows  of  the  ruined 
wall  !  Where  were  the  senators  of  Rome,  her  matrons, 
and  her  virgins  ?  where  the  ferocious  populace  that  rent 
the  air  with  shouts,  when,  in  the  hundred  holidays  that 
marked  the  dedication  of  this  imperial  slaughter-house, 
five  thousand  wild  beasts  from  the  Libyan  deserts  and  the 
forests  of  Anatolia  made  the  arena  sick  with  blood  ? 
Where  were  the  Christian  martyrs,  that  died  with  prayers 
upon  their  lips,  amid  the  jeers  and  imprecations  of  their 
fellow-men  ?  where  the  barbarian  gladiators,  brought 
forth  to  the  festival  of  blood,  and  "  butchered  to  make  a 
Roman  holiday  "?  The  awful  silence  answered,  "They 
are  mine  !"  The  dust  beneath  me  answered,  "  They  are 
mine  ! " 

I  crossed  to  the  opposite  extremity  of  the  amphitheatre. 
A  lamp  was  burning  in  the  little  chapel,  which  has  been 
formed  from  what  was  once  a  den  for  the  wild  beasts  of 
the  Roman  festivals.  Upon  the  steps  sat  the  old  beads 
man,  the  only  tenant  of  the  Coliseum,  who  guides  the 
stranger  by  night  through  the  long  galleries  of  this  vast 
pile  of  ruins.  I  followed  him  up  a  narrow  wooden  stair- 
sase,  and  entered  one  of  the  long  and  majestic  corridors, 


254  ROME  IN  MIDSUMMER. 

which  in  ancient  times  ran  entirely  round  the  amphithea« 
tre.  Huge  columns  of  solid  mason-work,  that  seem  the 
labor  of  Titans,  support  the  flattened  arches  above  ;  and 
though  the  iron  clamps  are  gone,  which  once  fastened  the 
hewn  stones  together,  yet  the  columns  stand  majestic 
and  unbroken,  amid  the  ruin  around  them,  and  seem  to 
defy  "the  iron  tooth  of  time."  Through  the  arches  at 
the  right,  I  could  faintly  discern  the  ruins  of  the  baths 
of  Titus  on  the  Esquiline  ;  and  from  the  left,  through 
every  chink  and  cranny  of  the  wall,  poured  in  the  bril 
liant  light  of  the  full  moon,  casting  gigantic  shadows 
around  me,  and  diffusing  a  soft,  silvery  twilight  through 
the  long  arcades.  At  length  I  came  to  an  open  space, 
where  the  arches  above  had  crumbled  away,  leaving  the 
pavement  an  unroofed  terrace  high  in  air.  From  this 
point,  I  could  see  the  whole  interior  of  the  amphitheatre 
spread  out  beneath  me,  half  in  shadow,  half  in  light, 
with  such  a  soft  and  indefinite  outline  that  it  seemed  less 
an  earthly  reality  than  a  reflection  in  the  bosom  of  a  lake. 
The  figures  of  several  persons  below  were  just  percepti 
ble,  mingling  grotesquely  with  their  foreshortened  shad 
ows.  The  sound  of  their  voices  reached  me  in  a  whisper  ; 
and  the  cross  that  stands  in  the  centre  of  the  arena  looked 
like  a  dagger  thrust  into  the  sand.  I  did  not  conjure  up 
the  past,  for  the  past  had  already  become  identified  with 
the  present.  It  was  before  me  in  one  of  its  visible  and 
most  majestic  forms.  The  arbitrary  distinctions  of 
time,  years,  ages,  centuries  were  annihilated.  I  was  a 
citizen  of  Rome  !  This  was  the  amphitheatre  of  Flaviua 
Vespasian  ! 

Mighty  is  the  spirit  of  the  past,  amid  the  ruins  of  the 
Eternal  City  ! 


THE  VILLAGE   OF  LA  RICCIA. 

"  Egrt'SMirr:  magiui  me  cxcepit  Aricia  Komi, 
Hospitio  madico." 

HORACE. 

I  PASSED  the  month  of  September  at  the  village  oi 
La  Riccia,  which  stands  upon  the  western  declivity  of 
the  Albanian  hills,  looking  towards  Rome.  Its  situation 
is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  which  Italy  can  boast.  Like 
a  mural  crown,  it  encircles  the  brow  of  a  romantic  hill ; 
woodlands  of  the  most  luxuriant  foliage  whisper  around 
it ;  above  it  rise  the  rugged  summits  of  the  Abruzzi,  and 
beneath  lies  the  level  floor  of  the  Campagna,  blotted  with 
ruined  tombs,  and  marked  with  broken  but  magnificent 
aqueducts  that  point  the  way  to  Rome.  The  whole  re 
gion  is  classic  ground.  The  Appian  Way  leads  you  from 
the  gate  of  Rome  to  the  gate  of  La  Riccia.  On  one  hand 
you  have  the  Alban  Lake,  on  the  other  the  Lake  of  Nemi ; 
and  the  sylvan  retreats  around  were  once  the  dwellings  of 
Ilippolytus  and  the  nymph  Egeria. 

The  town  itself,  however,  is  mean  and  dirty.  The  only 
inhabitable  part  is  near  the  northern  gate,  where  the  two 
streets  of  the  village  meet.  There,  face  to  face,  upon  a 
square  terrace,  paved  with  large,  flat  stones,  stand  tlio 
Chigi  palace  and  the  village  church  with  a  dome  and  por 
tico.  There,  too,  stands  the  village  inn,  with  its  beds  of 
cool,  elastic  corn-husks,  its  little  dormitories,  six  feet 
square,  and  its  spacious  saloon,  upon  whose  walls  the 
melancholy  story  of  Hippolytus  is  told  in  gorgeous  fres- 

355 


256  THE  VILLAGE  OF  LA  RICCIA. 

coes.  And  there,  too,  at  the  union  of  the  streets,  just 
peeping  through  the  gateway,  rises  the  wedge-shaped 
C'asa  Antoiiini,  within  whose  dusty  chambers  I  passed 
the  month  of  my  wlleggiatura,  in  company  with  two 
much-esteemed  friends  from  the  Old  Dominion, — a  fair 
daughter  of  that  generous  clime,  and  her  lord  and  mas 
ter,  an  artist,  an  enthusiast,  and  a  man  of  "infinite  jest." 

My  daily  occupations  in  this  delightful  spot  were  such 
as  an  idle  man  usually  whiles  away  his  time  withal  in 
such  rural  residence.  I  read  Italian  poetry, — strolled  in 
the  Chigi  park, — rambled  about  the  wooded  environs  of 
the  village, — took  an  airing  on  a  jackass, — threw  stones 
into  the  Alban  Lake, — and,  being  seized  at  intervals  with 
the  artist-mania,  that  came  upon  me  like  an  intermittent 
fever,  sketched — or  thought  I  did — the  trunk  of  a  hollow 
tree,  or  the  spire  of  a  distant  church,  or  a  fountain  in 
the  shade. 

At  such  seasons,  the  mind  is  "  tickled  with  a  straw," 
and  magnifies  each  trivial  circumstance  into  an  event  of 
some  importance.  I  recollect  one  morning,  as  I  sat  at 
breakfast  in  the  village  coffee-house,  a  large  and  beauti 
ful  spaniel  came  into  the  room,  and  placing  his  head 
upon  my  knee  looked  up  into  my  face  with  a  most  pite 
ous  look,  poor  dog !  as  much  as  to  say  that  he  had  not 
breakfasted.  I  gave  him  a  morsel  of  bread,  which  he 
swallowed  without  so  much  as  moving  his  long  silken  ears  ; 
and  keeping  his  soft,  beautiful  eyes  still  fixed  upon  mine, 
he  thumped  upon  the  floor  with  his  bashy  tail,  as  if 
knocking  for  the  waiter.  He  was  a  very  beautiful  animal, 
and  so  gentle  and  affectionate  in  his  manner,  that  I  asked 
the  waiter  who  his  owner  was. 

"He  has  none  now,"  said  the  boy. 

"What !"  said  I,  "so  fine  a  dog  without  a  master  ?" 


THE  VILLAGE  OF  LA  RICCIA.  257 

"  Ah,  Sir,  he  used  to  belong  to  Gasparoni,  the  famous 
robber  of  the  Abruzzi  mountains,  who  murdered  so  many 
people,  and  was  caught  at  last  and  sent  to  the  galleys  for 
life.  There's  his  portrait  on  the  wall." 

It  hung  directly  in  front  of  me  ;  a  coarse  print,  repre 
senting  the  dark,  stern  countenance  of  that  sinful  man,  a 
face  that  wore  an  expression  of  savage  ferocity  and  coarse 
sensuality.  I  had  heard  his  story  told  in  the  village  ;  the 
accustomed  tale  of  outrage,  violence,  and  murder.  And 
is  it  possible,  thought  I,  that  this  man  of  blood  could 
have  chosen  so  kind  and  gentle  a  companion  ?  What  a 
rebuke  must  he  have  met  in  those  large,  meek  eyes,  when 
he  patted  his  favorite  on  the  head,  and  dappled  his  long 
ears  with  blood  !  Heaven  seems  in  mercy  to  have  ordained 
that  none — no,  not  even  the  most  depraved — should  be  left 
entirely  to  his  evil  nature,  without  one  patient  monitor, 
— a  wife, — a  daughter, — a  fawning,  meek-eyed  dog,  whoso 
silent,  supplicating  look  may  rebuke  the  man  of  sin  !  If 
this  mute,  playful  creature,  that  licks  the  stranger's  hand, 
were  gifted  with  the  power  of  articulate  speech,  how  many 
a  tale  of  midnight  storm,  and  mountain-pass,  and  lonely 
glen,  would — but  these  reflections  are  common])! ace  ! 

On  another  occasion  I  saw  an  overladen  ass  fall  on  the 
steep  and  slippery  pavement  of  the  street,  lie  made  vio 
lent  but  useless  efforts  to  get  upon  his  feet  again;  and 
his  brutal  driver— more  brutal  than  the  suffering  beast  of 
burden — beat  him  unmercifully  with  his  heavy  \vhij>. 
Barbarian  !  is  it  notenough  that  you  have  laid  upon  your 
uncomplaining  servant  a  burden  greater  than  ii> 
bear?  Must  you  scourge  this  unresisting  slave,  lie- 
cause  his  strength  has  failed  him  in  your  hard  service  ? 
Does  not  that  imploring  look  disarm  you;'  l>ne<not  — 
and  here  was  another  theme  for  commonplace  reflection  ! 
17 


258  THE  VILLAGE  OF  LA  filCCIA. 

Again.  A  little  band  of  pilgrims,  clad  in  white,  with 
staves,  and  scallop-shells,  and  sandal  shoon,  have  just 
passed  through  the  village  gate,  wending  their  toilsome 
way  to  the  holy  shrine  of  Loretto.  They  wind  along  the 
brow  of  the  hill  with  slow  and  solemn  pace, — just  as 
they  ought  to  do,  to  agree  with  my  notion  of  a  pilgrim 
age,  drawn  from  novels.  And  now  they  disappear  be 
hind  the  hill ;  and  hark  !  they  are  singing  a  mournful 
hymn,  like  Christian  and  Hopeful  on  their  way  to  the 
Delectable  Mountains.  How  strange  it  seems  to  me, 
that  I  should  ever  behold  a  scene  like  this  !  a  pilgrimage 
to  Loretto  !  Here  was  another  outline  for  the  imagina 
tion  to  fill  up. 

But  my  chief  delight  was  in  sauntering  along  the 
many  woodland  walks,  which  diverge  in  every  direction 
from  the  gates  of  La  Riccia.  One  of  tbese  plunges  down 
the  steep  declivity  of  the  hill,  and,  threading  its  way 
through  a  most  romantic  valley,  leads  to  the  shapeless 
tomb  of  the  Horatii  and  the  pleasant  village  of  Albano. 
An  other  con  ducts  you  over  swelling  uplands  and  through 
wooded  hollows  to  Genzano  and  the  sequestered  Lake  of 
Ncmi,  which  lies  in  its  deep  crater,  like  the  waters  of 
a  well,  "  all  coiled  into  itself  and  round,  as  sleeps  the 
snake."  A  third,  and  the  most  beautiful  of  all,  runs  in 
an  undulating  line  along  the  crest  of  the  last  and  lowest 
ridge  of  the  Albanian  Hills,  and  leads  to  the  borders  of 
the  Alban  Lake.  In  parts  it  hides  itself  in  thick -leaved 
hollows,  in  parts  climbs  the  open  hillside  and  overlooks 
the  Campagna.  Then  it  winds  along  the  brim  of  the 
deep,  oval  basin  of  the  lake,  to  the  village  of  Castel 
Gandolfo,  and  thence  onward  to  Marino,  Grotta-Ferrata, 
and  Frascati. 

That  part  of  the  road  which  looks  down  upon  the  lake 


THE  VILLAGE  OF  LA  EICCIA.  259 

passes  through  a  magnificent  gallery  of  thick  embowering 
trees,  whose  dense  and  luxuriant  foliage  completely  shuts 
out  the  noonday  sun,  forming 

"  A  greensward  wagon- way,  that,  like 
Cathedral  aisle,  completely  roofed  with  branches, 
Runs  through  the  gloomy  wood  from  top  to  bottom, 
And  has  at  either  end  a  Gothic  door 
Wide  open." 

This  long  sylvan  arcade  is  called  the  Galleria-di-sopra, 
to  distinguish  it  from  the  Gatteria-di-sotto,  a  similar, 
though  less  beautiful  avenue,  leading  from  the  Castel 
Gandolfo  to  Albano,  under  the  brow  of  the  hill.  In  this 
upper  gallery,  and  almost  hidden  amid  its  old  and  leafy 
trees,  stands  a  Capuchin  convent,  with  a  little  esplanade 
in  front,  from  which  the  eye  enjoys  a  beautiful  view  of 
the  lake,  and  the  swelling  hills  beyond.  It  is  a  lovely 
spot, — so  lonely,  cool,  and  still ;  and  was  my  favorite  and 
most  frequented  haunt. 

Another  pathway  conducts  you  round  the  southern 
shore  of  the  Alban  Lake,  and,  after  passing  the  site  of 
the  ancient  Alba  Longa,  and  the  convent  of  Palazzuolo, 
turns  off  to  the  right  through  a  luxuriant  forest,  and 
climbs  the  rugged  precipice  of  Rocca  di  Papa.  Behind 
this  village  swells  the  rounded  peak  of  Monte  Cavo,  the 
highest  pinnacle  of  the  Albanian  Hills,  rising  three 
thousand  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea.  Upon  its  sum 
mit  once  stood  a  temple  of  Jupiter,  and  the  Triumphal 
Way,  by  which  the  Roman  conquerors  ascended  once  a 
year  in  solemn  procession  to  offer  sacrifices,  still  leads  y<m 
up  the  side  of  the  hill.  But  a  convent  has  been  built  upon 
the  ruins  of  the  ancient  temple,  and  the  disciples  of 
Loyola  are  now  the  only  conquerors  that  tread  the  pave 
ment  of  the  Triumphal  Way. 


260  THE  VILLAGE  OF  LA  EICCIA. 

The  view  from  the  windows  of  the  convent  is  vaiw  and 
magnificent.  Directly  beneath  you,  tlie  sight  plunges 
headlong  into  a  gulf  of  dark-green  foliage,— the  Alban 
Lake  seems  so  near,  that  you  can  almost  drop  a  pebble 
into  it, — and  Nemi,  imbosomed  in  a  green  and  cup-like 
valley,  lies  like  a  dew-drop  in  the  hollow  of  a  leaf.  All 
around  you,  upon  every  swell  of  the  landscape,  the  white 
walls  of  rural  towns  and  villages  peep  from  their  leafy 
coverts, — Genzano,  La  Riccia,  Castel  Gandolfo,  and 
Albano  ;  and  beyond  spreads  the  flat  and  desolate  Cam- 
pagna,  with  Eome  in  its  centre  and  seamed  by  the  silver 
thread  of  the  Tiber,  that  at  Ostia,  "with  a  pleasant 
stream,  whirling  in  rapid  eddies,  and  yellow  with  much 
sand,  rushes  forward  into  the  sea."  The  scene  of  half 
the  ^Eneid  is  spread  beneath  you  like  a  map  ;  and  it 
would  need  vohimes  to  describe  each  point  that  arrests 
the  eye  in  this  magnificent  panorama. 

As  I  stood  leaning  over  the  balcony  of  the  convent, 
giving  myself  up  to  those  reflections  which  the  scene  in 
spired,  one  of  the  brotherhood  came  from  a  neighboring 
cell,  and  entered  into  conversation  with  me.  He  was  an 
old  man,  with  a  hoary  head  and  a  trembling  hand  ;  yet 
his  voice  was  musical  and  soft,  and  his  eye  still  beamed 
with  the  enthusiasm  of  youth. 

"  How  wonderful,"  said  he,  "  is  the  scene  before  us  ! 
I  have  been  an  inmate  of  these  walls  for  thirty  years,  and 
yet  this  prospect  is  as  beautiful  to  my  eye  as  when  I 
gazed  upon  it  for  the  first  time.  N~ot  a  day  passes  that  I 
do  not  come  to  this  window  to  behold  and  to  admire. 
My  heart  is  still  alive  to  the  beauties  of  the' scene,  and  to 
all  the  classic  associations  it  inspires." 

"You  have  never,  then,  been  whipped  by  an  angel  foi 
reading  Cicero  and  Plautus,  as  St.  Jerome  was  ?  " 


THE  VILLAGE  OF  LA  R1CCIA.  261 

<clTo,"  said  the  monk,  Avitli  a  smile.  "From  my 
youth  up  I  have  been  a  disciple  of  Chrysostom,  who 
often  slept  with  the  comedies  of  Aristophanes  beneath 
his  pillow  ;  and  yet  I  confess  that  the  classic  associations 
of  Eoman  history  and  fable  are  not  the  most  thrilling 
which  this  scene  awakens  in  my  mind.  Yonder  is  the 
bridge  from  which  Constantino  beheld  the  miraculous 
cross  of  fire  in  the  sky  ;  and  I  can  never  forget  that  this 
convent  is  built  upon  the  ruins  of  a  pagan  temple.  The 
town  of  Ostia,  which  lies  before  us  on  the  sea-shore,  is 
renowned  as  the  spot  where  the  Trojan  fugitive  first 
landed  on  the  coast  of  Italy.  But  other  associations  than 
this  have  made  the  spot  holy  in  my  sight.  Marcus  Miu- 
utius  Felix,  a  Roman  lawyer,  who  nourished  in  the  third 
century,  a  convert  to  our  blessed  faith,  and  one  of  the 
parest  writers  of  the  Latin  Church,  here  places  the  E 
of  his  'Octavius.'  This  work  has  probably  never  fallen 
into  your  hands  ;  for  you  are  too  young  to  have-  pushed 
your  studies  into  the  dusty  tomes  of  the  early  Christian 
fathers." 

I  replied  that  I  had  never  so  much  as  heard  the  book 
mentioned  before  ;  and  the  monk  continued  : — 

"  It  is  a  dialogue  upon  the  vanity  of  pagan  idolatry  and 
the  truth  of  the  Christian  religion,  between  Cuvilius.  a 
heathen,  and  Octavius,  a  Christian.     The  style  is  rieh, 
flowing,   and  poetical;    and  if  the  author   hamlli - 
weapons  with  less  power  than  a  Tertullian,  y 
hibits  equal  adroitness  and  more  grace.      lie  lias  rather 
the  studied  elegance  of  the  Roman  lawyer,  ilian  the  bold 
spirit  of  a  Christian  martyr.  But  the  volume  is  a  treasure  to 
me  in  my  solitary  hours,  and  I  love  to  sit  here  upon  tho 
balcony,  and  con  its  poetic  language  and  sweet  iin:. 
You  shall  see  the  volume;  I  carry  it  in  my  bo  om." 


262  THE  VILLAGE  OF  LA  EICCIA. 

With  these  words,  the  monk  drew  from  the  folds  of  his 
gown  a  small  volume,  richly  embossed  and  clasped  with 
silver ;  and,  turning  over  its  well  worn  leaves,  con 
tinued  : — 

"  In  the  introduction,  the  author  describes  himself  as 
walking  upon  the  sea-shore  at  Ostia,  in  company  with  his 
friends  Octavius  and  Caecilius.  Observe  in  what  beauti 
ful  language  he  describes  the  scene." 

Here  he  read  to  n.e  the  following  passage,  which  I 
transcribe,  not  from  memory,  but  from  the  book  itself. 

"  It  was  vacation-time,  and  that  gave  me  a-loose  from 
my  business  at  the  bar  ;  for  it  was  the  season  after  the 
summer's  heat,  when  autumn  promised  fair,  and  put  on 
the  face  of  temperate.  We  set  out,  therefore,  in  the 
morning  early,  and  as  we  were  walking  upon  the  sea 
shore,  and  a  kindly  breeze  fanned  and  refreshed  our  limbs, 
and  the  yielding  sand  softly  submitted  to  our  feet  and 
made  it  delicious  travelling,  Csecilius  on  a  sudden  espied 
the  statue  of  Serapis,  and,  according  to  the  vulgar  mode 
of  superstition,  raised  his  hand  to  his  mouth,  and  paid  his 
adoration  in  kisses.  Upon  which,  Octavius,  addressing 
himself  to  me,  said, — 'It  is  not  well  done,  my  brother 
Marcus,  thus  to  leave  your  inseparable  companion  in  the 
depth  of  vulgar  darkness,  and  to  suffer  him,  in  so  clear  a 
day,  to  stumble  upon  stones ;  stones,  indeed,  of  figure, 
and  anointed  with  oil,  and  crowned  ;  but  stones,  however, 
still  they  are  ; — for  you  cannot  but  be  sensible  that  your 
permitting  so  foul  an  error  in  your  friend  redounds  no  less 
to  your  disgrace  than  his.'  This  discourse  of  his  held  us 
through  half  the  city  ;  and  now  we  began  to  find  ourselves 
upon  the  free  and  open  shore.  There  the  gently  washing 
waves  had  spread  the  extremest  sands  into  the  order  of  an 
artificial  walk ;  ani  as  the  sea  always  expresses  some  rough- 


THE  VILLAGE  OF  LA  RICCIA.  2G3 

ness  in  his  looks,  even  Avhen  the  winds  are  still,  although 
he  did  not  roll  in  foam  and  angry  surges  to  the  shore,  yet 
were  we  much  delighted,  as  we  walked  upon  the  e<L 
the  water,  to  see  the  crisping,  frizzly  waves  glide  in  snakv 
folds,  one  while  playing  against  our  feet,  and  then  again 
retiring  and  lost  in  the  devouring  ocean.  Softly  then, 
and  calmly  as  the  sea  about  us,  we  travelled  on,  and  kept 
upon  the  brim  of  the  gently  declining  shore,  beguiling  the 
way  with  our  stories." 

Here  the  sound  of  vhe  convent-bell  interrupted  the 
reading  of  the  monk,  and,  closing  the  volume,  lie  replaced 
it  in  his  bosom,  and  bade  me  farewell,  with  a  parting  in 
junction  to  read  the  "  Octavius  "  of  Minutius  Felix  as 
soon  as  I  should  return  to  Rome. 

During  the  summer  months,  La  Riccia  is  a  favorite  re 
sort  of  foreign  artists  who  are  pursuing  their  studies  in 
the  churches  and  galleries  of  Rome.  Tired  of  copying 
the  works  of  art,  they  go  forth  to  copy  the  works  of  na 
ture  ;  and  you  will  iind  them  perched  on  their  camp- 
stools  at  every  picturesque  point  of  view,  with  white 
umbrellas  to  shield  them  from  the  sun,  and  paint-boxes 
upon  their  knees,  sketching  with  busy  hands  the  smiling 
features  of  the  landscape.  The  peasantry,  too.  are  tine 
models  for  their  study.  The  women  of  (ieii/.ano  an-  noted 
for  their  beauty,  and  almost:  every  village  in  the  neighbor 
hood  lias  something  peculiar  in  its  costume. 

The  sultry  day  was  closing,  and  I  had  readied,  in  my 
accustomed  evening's  walk,  the  woodland  gallery  that 
looks  down  upon  the  Alban  Lake.  The  setting  sun 
seemed  to  melt  away  in  the  sky,  dissolving  into  a  golden 
rain,  that  bathed  the  whole  Campagna  with  unearthly 
splendor;  while  Rome  in  (lie  distance,  half-hidden,  half- 
revealed,  lay  floating  like  a  mote  in  the  lu-oad  and  misty 


264  THE  VILLAGE  OF  LA  RICCIA. 

sunbeam.  The  woodland  walk  before  me  seemed  roofed 
witt  gold  and  emerald ;  and  at  intervals  across  its  leafy 
arches  shot  the  level  rays  of  the  sun,  kindling,  as  they 
passed,  like  the  burning  shaft  of  Acestes.  Beneath  me 
the  lake  slept  quietly.  A  blue,  smoky  vapor  floated  around 
its  overhanging  cliffs  ;  the  tapering  cone  of  Monte  Cavo 
hung  reflected  in  the  water  ;  a  little  boat  skimmed  along 
its  glassy  surface,  and  I  could  even  hear  the  sound  cf  tha 
laboring  oar,  so  motionless  and  silent  was  the  air  around 
me. 

I  soon  reached  the  convent  of  Castel  Gandolfo.  Upon 
one  of  the  stone  benches  of  the  esplanade  sat  a  monk  with 
a  book  in  his  hand.  He  saluted  me,  as  I  approached,  and 
some  trivial  remarks  upon  the  scene  before  us- led  us  into 
conversation.  I  observed  by  his  accent  that  he  was  not  :\ 
native  of  Italy,  though  he  spoke  Italian  with  great  fluency. 
In  this  opinion  I  was  confirmed  by  his  saying  that  ho 
should  soon  bid  farewell  to  Italy  and  return  to  his  native 
lakes  and  mountains  in  the  north  of  Ireland.  I  then  said 
to  him  in  English, — 

"  How  strange,  that  an  Irishman  and  an  Anglo- Ameri 
can  should  be  conversing  together  in  Italian  upon  the 
shores  of  Lake  Albano  !  " 

"It  is  strange,"  said  he,  with  a  smile;  "though 
stranger  things  have  happened.  But  I  owe  the  pleasure 
of  this  meeting  to  a  circumstance  which  changes  that 
pleasure  into  pain.  I  have  been  detained  here  many 
weeks  beyond  the  time  I  had  fixed  for  my  departure  by 
the  sickness  of  a  friend,  who  lies  at  the  point  of  death 
within  the  walls  of  this  convent." 

"  Is  he,  too,  a  Capuchin  friar  like  yourself  ?  " 

"  lie  is.  We  came  together  from  our  native  land,  some 
six  years  ago,  to  study  at  the  Jesuit  College  in  Eome. 


THE  VILLAGE  OF  LA  RICCIA.  265 

This  summer  we  were  to  have  returned  home  again ;  but 
I  shall  now  make  the  journey  alone." 

"  Is  there,  then,  no  hope  of  his  recovery  ?  " 

"None  whatever,"  answered  the  monk,  shaking  his 
head.  "He  has  been  brought  to  this  convent  from 
Eome,  for  the  benefit  of  a  purer  air  ;  but  it  is  only  to  die, 
and  be  buried  near  the  borders  of  this  beautiful  like.  U-- 
is  a  victim  of  consumption.  But  come  with  me  to  his 
cell.  He  will  feel, it  a  kindness  to  have  you  visit  him. 
Such  a  mark  of  sympathy  in  a  stranger  will  be  grateful  to 
him  in  this  foreign  land,  where  friends  are  so  f< 

"We  entered  the  chapel  together,  and,  ascending  a  flight 
of  steps  beside  the  altar,  passed  into  the  cloisters  of  the 
convent.  Another  flight  of  steps  led  up  to  the  dormito 
ries  above,  in  one  of  which  the  sick  man  lay.  Here  my 
guide  left  me  for  a  moment,  and  softly  entered  a  neigh 
boring  cell.  He  soon  returned  and  beckoned  me  to  eonie 
in.  The  room  was  dark  and  hot ;  for  the  window-shut 
ters  had  been  closed  to  keep  out  the  rays  of  the  sun.  that 
in  the  after  part  of  the  day  fell  unobstructed  upon  the 
western  wall  of  the  convent.  In  one  comer  of  the  little 
room,  upon  a  pallet  of  straw,  lay  the  sick  man,  with  his 
face  towards  the  wall.  As  I  entered,  he  raised  himself 
upon  his  elbow,  and,  stretching  out  his  hand  to  me.  said, 
in  a  faint  voice, — 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  It  is  kind  in  you  to  make  me 
this  visit." 

Then  speaking  to  his  friend,  he  begged  him  to  open 
the  window-shutter  and  let  in  tlu>  light   and  air;  and  a< 
the  bright   sunbeam    through  the    wivuthii-g   vap<>: 
evening  played  upon  the  wall  and  ceiling,  lie  said,  with  a 

sign,— 

"How  beautiful  is  an  Italian  sunset  !     Its  splendor  is 


266  THE  VILLAGE  OF  LA  RICCIA. 

all  around  us,  as  if  we  stood  in  the  horizon  itself  r 
touch  the  sky.  And  yet,  to  a  sick  man's  feeble  and  dis 
tempered  sight,  it  has  a  wan  and  sickly  hue.  He  turns 
away  with  an  aching  heart  from  the  splendor  he  cannot 
enjoy.  The  cool  air  seems  the  only  friendly  thing  that  is 
left  for  him." 

As  he  spake,  a  deeper  shade  of  sadness  stole  over  his 
pale  countenance,  sallow  and  attenuated  by  long  illness. 
But  it  soon  passed  off :  and  as  the  conversation  changed 
to  other  topics,  he  grew  cheerful  again.  He  spoke  of  his 
return  to  his  native  land  with  childish  delight.  This 
hope  had  not  deserted  him.  It  seemed  never  to  have 
entered  his  mind  that  even  this  consolation  would  be 
denied  him,— that  death  would  thwart  even  these  fond 
anticipations. 

"  I  shall  soon  be  well  enough,"  said  he,  "to  undertake 
the  journey  ;  and,  0,  with  what  delight  shall  I  turn  my 
back  upon  the  Apennines  !  We  shall  cross  the  Alps  into 
Switzerland,  then  go  down  the  Khine  to  England,  and 
soon,  soon  we  shall  see  the  shores  of  the  Emerald  Isle,  and 
once  more  embrace  father,  mother,  sisters  !  By  my  pro 
fession,  I  have  renounced  the  world,  but  not  those  holy 
emotions  of  love  which  are  one  of  the  highest  attributes 
of  the  soul,  and  which,  though  sown  in  corruption  here, 
shall  hereafter  be  raised  in  incorruption.  No  ;  even  He 
that  died  for  us  upon  the  cross,  in  the  last  hour,  in  the 
unutterable  agony  of  death,  was  mindful  of  his  mother  ; 
as  if  to  teach  us  that  this  holy  love  should  be  our  last 
Avorldly  thought,  the  last  point  of  earth  from  which  the 
soul  should  take  its  flight  for  heaven." 

He  ceased  to  speak.  His  eyes  were  fastened  upon  the 
sky  with  a  fixed  and  steady  gaze,  though  all  unconsciously, 
for  his  thoughts  were  far  away  amid  the  scenes  of  his 


THE  VILLAGE  OF  LA  RICCIA.  2H7 

distant  home.  As  I  left  his  cell,  he  seemed  sinking  lo 
sleep,  and  hardly  noticed  my  departure.  The  gloom  of 
twilight  had  already  filled  the  cloisters  ;  the  monks  wre 
chanting  their  evening  hymn  in  the  chapel ;  and  one  un 
broken  shadow  spread  through  the  long  cathedral  aisle  oi 
forest-trees  which  led  me  homeward.  There,  in  the  si 
lence  of  the  hour,  and  amid  the  almost  sepulchral  gloom 
of  the  woodland  scene,  I  tried  to  impress  upon  my  care 
less  heart  the  serious  and  affecting  lesson  I  had  learned. 

I  saw  the  sick  monk  no  more  ;  but  a  day  or  two  after 
ward  I  heard  in  the  village  that  he  had  departed, — not 
far  an  earthly,  but  for  a  heavenly  home. 


NOTE-BOOK. 


Once  more  among  the  old,  gigantic  hille, 

With  vapors  clouded  o'er, 
The  vales  of  Lombardy  grow  dim  behind, 

And  rocks  ascend  before. 
They  beckon  me,— the  giants, — from  afar. 

They  \ving  my  footsteps  on  ; 
Their  helms  of  ice,  their  plumage  of  the  pine, 

Their  cuirasses  of  stone. 

OEHLENSCHLAKGEB. 


THE  glorious  autumn  closed.  From  the  Abruzzi 
came  the  Zampognari,  playing  their  rustic  bag 
pipes  beneath  the  images  of  the  Virgin  in  the  streets  of 
Rome,  and  hailing  with  rude  minstrelsy  the  approach  of 
merry  Christmas.  The  shops  were  full  of  dolls  and 
gew-gaws  for  the  Bifana,  who  enacts  in  Italy  the  same 
merry  interlude  for  children  that  Santiclaus  does  in  the 
North ;  and  travellers  from  colder  climes  began  to  fly 
southward,  like  sun-seeking  swallows. 

I  left  Eome  for  Venice,  crossing  the  Apennines  by  the 
wild  gorge  of  the  Strettura,  in  a  drenching  rain.  At 
Fano  we  struck  into  the  sands  of  the  Adriatic,  and  fol 
lowed  the  seashore  northward  to  Rimini,  where  in  the 
market-place  stands  a  pedestal  of  stone,  from  which, 
as  an  officious  cicerone  informed  me,  "Julius  Caesar 
preached  to  his  army,  before  crossing  the  Rubicon." 
Other  principal  points  in  my  journey  were  Bologna,  with 
its  Campo  Santo,  its  gloomy  arcades,  and  its  sausages ; 
Ferrara,  with  its  ducal  palace  and  the  dungeon  of  Tasso  ,• 
268 


NOTE-BOOK. 

Padua  the  Learned,  Avith   ils   sombre  and  scholastic  air, 
and  its  inhabitants  "apt  for  pike  or  pen." 


I  FIRST  saw  Venice  by  moonlight,  as  we  skimmed  by 
the  island  of  St.  George  in  a  felucca,  and  entered  the, 
Grand  Canal.  A.  thousand  lamps  glittered  from  the 
square  of  St.  Mark,  and  along  the  water's  edge.  Abovo 
rose  the  cloudy  shapes  of  spires,  domes,  and  palaces, 
emerging  from  the  sea  :  and  occasionally  the  twinkling 
lamp  of  a  gondola  darted  across  the  water  like  a  shooting 
star,  and  suddenly  disappeared,  as  if  quenched  in  tlio 
wave.  There  was  something  so  unearthly  in  the  scene,, — 
BO  visionary  and  fairy-like, — that  I  almost  expected  to 
see  the  city  float  away  like  a  cloud,  and  dissolve  into 
thin  air. 

Howell,  in  his  "Signorie  of  Venice,"  says,  "It  is  the 
water,  wherein  she  lies  like  a  swan's  nest,  that  doth  both 
fence  and  feed  her."  Again  :  "  She  swims  in  wealth  and 
wantonness,  as  well  as  she  doth  in  the  waters  ;  she  melts 
in  softness  and  sensuality,  as  much  as  any  other  whatso 
ever."  And  still  farther:  "Her  streets  are  so  neat  and 
evenly  paved,  that  in  the  dead  of  winter  one  may  walk  up 
and  down  in  a  pair  of  satin  pan  tables  and  crimson  silk 
stockings,  and  not  be  dirtied."  And  the  old  Italian 
proverb  says, — 

"  Venegia,  Venegla, 
Chi  non  ti  vede  non  ti  pregia  ; 
Ma  chi  t'  ha  troppo  vt-duto 
Ti  dispregia  ! " 

Venice,  Venice,  who  sees  thee  not  doth  not  prize  thee  j 
but  who  hath  too  much  seen  thee  doth  despise  t 


87ft  JH  O2  E-BOOK 

Shoulw  you  ever  want  a  gondolier  at  V  euice  to  sing 
you  a  passage  from  Tasso  by  moonlight,  inquire  for  Toni 
Tosean.  He  has  a  voice  like  a  raven.  I  sketched  his 
portrait  in  my  note-book  ;  and  he  wrote  beneath  it  this 
inscription : — 

"  Poeta  Natural  che  Venizian, 
Ch'  el  so  nome  xe  un  tal  Toni  Tosean." 


THE  road  from  Venice  to  Trieste  traverses  a  vast  tract 
of  level  land,  with  the  Friulian  Mountains  on  the  left,  and 
the  Adriatic  on  the  right.  You  pass  through  long  ave 
nues  of  trees,  and  the  road  stretches  in  unbroken  per 
spective  before  and  behind.  Trieste  is  a  busy,  commer 
cial  city,  with  wide  streets  intersecting  each  other  at  right 
angles.  It  is  a  mart  for  all  nations.  Greeks,  Turks, 
Italians,  Germans,  French,  and  English  meet  you  at  every 
corner  and  in  every  coffee-house  ;  and  the  ever-changing 
variety  of  national  countenance  and  costume  affords  an 
amusing  and  instructive  study  for  a  traveller. 


TRIESTE  to  Vienna.  Daybreak  among  the  Carnic 
Alps.  Above  and  around  me  huge  snow-covered  pinna 
cles,  shapeless  masses  in  the  pale  starlight, — till  touched 
by  the  morning  sunbeam,  as  by  IthuriePs  spear,  they  as 
sume  their  natural  forms  and  dimensions.  A  long,  wind 
ing  valley  beneath,  sheeted  with  spotless  snow.  At  my 
side  a  yawning  and  rent  chasm  ; — a  mountain  brook, — • 
seen  now  and  then  through  the  chinks  of  its  icy  bridge, 
black  and  treacherous, — and  tinkling  along  its  frozen 
channel  with  a  sound  like  a  distant  clanking  of  chains. 


NOTE-BOOK.  ^n 

Magnificent  highland  scenery  between  Griitz  and  Vi 
enna  in  the  Steiermark.  The  wild  mountain-pass  from 
Meerzuschlag  to  Schottwien.  A  castle  built  like  an 
eagle's  nest  upon  the  top  of  a  perpendicular  crag.  A 
little  hamlet  at  the  base  of  the  mountain.  A  covered 
wagon,  drawn  by  twenty-one  horses,  slowly  toiling  up 
the  slippery,  zigzag  road.  A  snow-storm.  Reached  Vienna 
at  midnight. 


ON"  the  southern  bank  of  the  Danube,  about  sixteen 
miles  above  Vienna,  stands  the  ancient  castle  of  Greifen- 
stein,  where — if  the  tale  be  true,  though  many  doubt  and 
some  deny  it — Richard  the  Lion-heart  of  England  was 
imprisoned,  when  returning  from  the  third  crusade.  It  is 
built  upon  the  summit  of  a  steep  and  rocky  hill,  that 
rises  just  far  enough  from  the  river's  brink  to  leave  :i 
foothold  for  the  highway.  At  the  base  of  the  hill  stands 
the  village  of  Greifenstein,  from  which  a  winding  path 
way  leads  you  to  the  old  castle.  You  pass  through  an 
arched  gate  into  a  narrow  court-yard,  and  thence  onward 
to  a  large,  square  tower.  Near  the  doorway,  and  deeply 
cut  into  the  solid  rock,  upon  which  the  castle  stands,  is 
the  form  of  a  human  hand,  so  perfect  that  your  own  lies 
in  it  as  in  a  mould.  And  hence  the  name  of  ( i  reil'enstein. 
In  the  square  tower  is  Richard's  prison,  completely  isola 
ted  from  the  rest  of  the  castle.  A  wooden  staircase  leads 
you  up  on  the  outside  to  a  light  balcony,  running  entirely 
round  the  tower,  not  far  below  its  turrets.  From  this 
balcony  you  enter  the  prison, —  a  small,  square  chamber, 
lighted  by  two  Gothic  windows.  The  walls  of  the  tower 
are  some  five  feet  thick  ;  and  in  the  pavement  is  a  trap 
door,  opening  into  a  dismal  vault, — a  vast  dungeon,*  which 


272  NOTE-BOOK. 

occupies  all  the  lower  part  of  the  tower,  quite  down  to 
its  rocky  foundations,  and  which  formerly  frad  no  en 
trance  but  the  trap-door  above.  In  one  corner  of  the 
chamber  stands  a  large  cage  of  oaken  timber,  in  which  the 
royal  prisoner  is  said  to  have  been  shut  up  ;  the  grossest 
humbug  that  ever  cheated  the  gaping  curiosity  of  a  trav 
eller. 

The  balcony  commands  some  fine  and  picturesque 
views.  Beneath  you  winds  the  lordly  Danube,  spreading 
its  dark  waters  over  a  wide  tract  of  meadow-land,  and 
forming  numerous  little  islands ;  and  all  around,  the 
landscape  is  bounded  by  forest-covered  hills,  topped  by 
the  mouldering  turrets  of  a  feudal  castle  or  the  tapering 
spire  of  a  village  church.  The  spot  is  well  worth  visiting, 
though  German  antiquaries  say  that  Richard  was  not  im 
prisoned  there  ;  this  story  being  at  best  a  bold  conjecture 
of  what  is  possible,  though  not  probable. 


FROM  Vienna  I  passed  northward,  visiting  Prague, 
Dresden,  and  Leipsic,  and  then  folding  my  wings  for  a 
season  in  the  scholastic  shades  of  Gottingen.  Thence  I 
passed  through  Cassel  to  Frankfort  011  the  Maine  ;  and 
thence  to  Mayence,  where  I  took  the  steamboat  down  the 
Rhine.  These  several  journeys  I  shall  not  describe,  for 
as  many  several  reasons.  First, — but  no  matter, — I  pre 
fer  thus  to  stride  across  the  earth  like  the  Saturiiian  in  Mi- 
cromegas,  making  but  one  step  from  the  Adriatic  to  the 
German  Ocean.  I  leave  untold  the  wonders  of  the  won 
drous  Rhine,  a  fascinating  theme.  Not  even  the  beauties 
of  the  Vautsburg  and  the  Bingenloch  shall  detain  me.  I 
hasten,  like  the  blue  waters  of  that  romantip  river,  to  loss 
myself  in  the  sands  of  Holland. 


TILE  PILGRIM'S  SALUTATION. 


Ye  who  have  traced  the  Pilgrim  to  the 
Which  is  his  hist,  if  in  your  memories  dwell 
A  thought,  which  once  was  his.  if  on  ye  s\\ell 
A  single  r-collection.  not.  in  vain 
He  wore  his  sandal-shoon  and  scallop-shell. 

CllII.DK    IlAK.iI.n. 


,  fair  dames  and  courteous  gentlemen,  arc 
•*-  some  of  tlio  scenes  and  musings  of  mv  pilgrin 
\\  I  .-MI  I  journeyed  a\vay  from  my  kill)  and  kin  into  the 
land  of  Outre-Mer.  And  yet  amid  these  scenes  and  mus 
ings, — amid  all  the  novelties  of  (he  Old  World,  and  the 
quick  succession  of  images  that  wire  continually  calling 
my  thoughts  away,  there  were  always  fond  regrets  and 
longings  after  the  land  of  my  birth  lurking  in  the  secret, 
corners  of  my  heart.  When  I  stood  by  the  sea-shore,  and 
listened  to  the  melancholy  and  familiar  mar  of  its  \\ 
it  seemed  hut  a  step  from  the  threshold  of  a  foreign  land 
to  the  fireside  of  home;  and  when  I  watched  the  out 
bound  sail,  fading  over  the  water's  edge,  and  losing  itself 
in  the  bine  mists  of  the  sea,  my  heart  went  with  it.  and  I 

turned   away  fancy-sick  with   the   blessings  of  I ie  and 

the  endearments  of  domestic  love. 

"I  know  not  how,— but  in  son  land  of  P 

My  heart   was  heavy  still : 
[  startled  at  i\r<  \v::rlili;r':  niu'htiii^ali-, 

The  xeplivr  on  tin-  hill. 
18 


374:  THE  PILGRIM'S  SAL  UTA  TION. 

They  said  the  stars  shone  with  a  softer  gleam  : 

It  seemed  not  so  to  me  I 
In  vain  a  scene  of  beauty  beamed  around. — 

My  thoughts  were  o'er  the  sea. 


At  times  I  -would  sit  at  midnight  in  the  solitude  of  my 
chamber,  and  give  way  to  the  recollection  of  distant 
friends.  How  delightful  it  is  thus  to  strengthen  within 
us  the  golden  threads  that  unite  our  sympathies  with  the 
past, — to  fill  up,  as  it  were,  the  blanks  of  existence  with 
the  images  of  those  we  love  !  How  sweet  are  these 
dreams  of  home  in  a  foreign  land  !  How  calmly  across 
life's  stormy  sea  blooms  that  little  world  of  affection,  like 
those  Hesperian  isles  where  eternal  summer  reigns,  and 
the  olive  blossoms  all  the  year  round,  and  honey  distils 
from  the  hollow  oak  !  Truly,  the  love  of  home  is  inter 
woven  with  all  that  is  pure,  and  deep,  and  lasting  in 
earthly  affection.  Let  us  wander  where  we  may,  the 
heart  looks  back  with  secret  longing  to  the  paternal  roof. 
There  the  scattered  rays  of  affection  concentrate.  Time 
may  enfeeble  them,  distance  overshadow  them,  and  the 
storms  of  life  obstruct  them  for  a  season ;  but  they  will 
at  length  break  through  the  cloud  and  storm,  and  glow, 
and  burn,  and  brighten  around  the  peaceful  threshold  of 
home. 

And  now,  farewell !  The  storm  is  over,  and  through 
the  parting  clouds  the  radiant  sunshine  breaks  upon  my 
path.  God's  blessing  upon  you  for  your  hospitality.  I 
fear  I  have  but  poorly  repaid  it  by  these  tales  of  my  pil 
grimage  ;  and  I  bear  your  kindness  meekly,  for  I  come 
not  like  Theudas  of  old,  "boasting  myself  to  be  some 
body." 

Farewell !     My  prayer  is,  that  I  be  not  among  you  as 


THE  PILGRIM  '>'  &  1  L  T  T.  1  77' /  A 

the  stranger  at  the  court  of  Busiris  ;  that  your  God-spiv.] 
be  not  a  thrust  that  kills. 

Pax  vobiscum  I    The  Pilgrim's  benison  upon  this  hon 
orable  companj. 


COLOPHON. 

Heart,  take  thine  ease,— 
Men  hard  to  please 

Thou  hapty  mightst  offend; 
Though  some  speak  ill 
Of  thee,  some  will 

Say  better  ;— there's  an  end. 

HEYLUC. 

MY  pilgrimage  is  ended.  I  have  come  home  to  rest ; 
and,  recording  the  time  past,  I  have  fulfilled  tho.se 
things,  and  written  them  in  this  book,  as  it  would  come 
into  my  mind, — for  the  most  part,  when  the  duties  of  the 
day  were  over,  and  the  world  around  me  was  hushed  in 
sleep.  The  pen  wherewith  I  write  most  easily  is  a  feather 
stolen  from  the  sable  wing  of  night.  Even  now,  as  I 
record  these  parting  words,  it  is  long  past  midnight.  The 
morning  watches  have  begun.  And  as  I  write,  the  mel 
ancholy  thought  intrudes  upon  me, — To  what  end  is  all 
this  toil  ?  Of  what  avail  these  midnight  vigils  ?  D<>>t 
thou  covet  fame  ?  Vain  dreamer  !  A  few  brief  days,— 
and  what  will  the  busy  world  know  of  thee  ?  Alas  !  this 
little  book  is  but  a  bubble  on  the  stream  ;  and  although 
it  may  catch  the  sunshine  for  a  moment,  yet  it  will  soon 
float  down  the  swift-rushing  current,  and  be  seen  no 
more  I 

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